DAS  ^ 

SON 


STEPHEN  MCKENNA 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIl>£ 


MIDAS  AND  SON 
STEPHEN  McKENNA 


MIDAS  AND  SON 


BY 

STEPHEN  McKENNA 

AUTHOR  OF   "SONIA,"   "nINETY-SDC  HOTJKS'   LEAVE,"  ETC. 


NEW  ^^S^  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


c 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  GEORGE  H.   DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 
ELIZABETH 


^^Naked  came  I  out  of  my  mother's  zvomb, 
and  naked  shall  I  return  thither^ 

Job  I,  21 


vu 


Vix  spes  ipse  suas  animo  capit,  aurea  fingens 
Omnia.     Gaudenti  mensas  posuere  ministri, 
Extructas  dapibus,  nee  tostse  frugis  egentes: 
Ttim  vero,  sive  ille  sua  cerealia  dextra 
Munera  contigerat,  Cerealia  dona  rigebant; 
Sive  dapes  avido  convellere  dente  parabat, 
Lammina  fulva  dapes,  admoto  dente,  nitebant. 
Miscuerat  puris  auctorem  muneris  undis: 
Fusile  per  rictus  aurum  fluitare  videres. 
Attonitus  novitate  mali,  divesque  miserque, 
Eflfugere  optat  opes,  et,  quae  modo  voverat,  odit. 
Copia  nulla  famem  relevat:  sitis  arida  guttur 
Urit,  et  inviso  meritus  torquetur  ab  auro. 
(Ad  caelumque  manus,  et  splendida  bracchia  tollens) 
"Da  veniam,  Lanaee  pater!  peccavimus " ;  inquit 
"Sed  miserere,  precor,  speciosque  eripe  damno." 

iOvid,  "Metamorphoses,"  XI,  1 18-133. 


is. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    Si  Vieillesse  Savait        15 

II    What's  Bred  in  the  Bone 60 

III  A  Question  OF  Pride 121 

IV  Recoil 183 

V    Recovery 239 

VI    Si  Jeunesse  Pouvait .  286 

VII    What  Comes  Out  in  the  Flesh 333 

VIII    A  Question  of  Expediency 383 


XI 


MIDAS  AND  SON 


CHAPTER  I 

I 

SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT   .   .   . 

Life  is  like  playing  a  violin  solo  in  public  and  learning  the  in- 
strument as  one  goes  on. 

Samuel  Butler  :    Essays  on  Life,  Art  and  Science, 


As  Sir  Aylmer  Lancing's  car  wound  between  the  high 
banks  of  rhododendrons  which  skirted  the  two-mile  drive 
to  Ripley  Court,  he  leaned  forward  critically  to  catch  a 
giimpse  of  the  preparations  for  his  son's  return  to  England. 
For  two  years  all  but  the  south-east  wing  of  the  great 
Elizabethan  house  had  been  closed;  he  had  been  wheeled 
from  his  bedroom  on  the  ground  floor  to  the  study,  es- 
tate-room or  office,  thence  to  the  dining-room  and  back 
again  to  bed  without  the  strength  or  wish  once  to  pene- 
trate the  sound-proof  double  doors  which  divided  and 
screened  him  from  the  panelled  central  hall  and  the  far 
south-western  wing  where  his  son's  library  and  music-room 
were  situated.  In  two  years  the  twelve- foot  front  door, 
surmounted  by  the  Stornaway  arms,  had  never  been  pub- 
licly opened;  Sir  Aylmer  and  the  vicarious  philanthropists 
who  were  his  only  visitors  came  and  went  by  the  side  en- 
trance leading  to  the  Chapel. 

To-day  every  blind  was  up,  ever}^  window  shone  in  the 
treacherous  February  sunlight,  and  the  front  door  was  un- 
barred and  open.  Thick  spirals  of  smoke  curled  from  un- 
familiar chimneys,  and  the  housemaids   in  print  dresses 

15 


i6  MIDAS  AND  SON 

passed  and  repassed  before  newly  open  windows.  The 
magic  of  spring,  which  had  already  coaxed  scattered  clus- 
ters of  snowdrops  from  the  sodden  earth,  seemed  to  be 
waking  the  winter-bound  house  itself  to  life;  and,  as  the 
car  slowed  down  at  the  side  door  and  Sir  Aylmer  became 
infected  with  the  bustle  and  stir  of  preparation,  he  sighed 
and  sat  with  his  gaze  bent  on  the  quickening  house  long 
after  the  footman  had  withdrawn  the  rugs  and  pushed 
forward  the  wheeled  chair. 

"I'm  not  going  in  yet,"  he  said  in  a  deep,  measured  voice 
of  habitual  authority.  "Bring  the  garden  chair  and  tell 
Benson  that  I  want  him  to  take  me  round  the  place  before 
lunch." 

The  footman  touched  his  cap  and  withdrew,  to  return 
a  moment  later  with  a  muscular,  professionally  cheerful 
male  attendant  pulling  a  bathchair.  Towering  over  his 
shoulder,  Sir  Aylmer  laboriously  climbed  down  from  the 
car  and  lowered  himself  heavily  into  the  chair,  which 
creaked  and  sank  under  his  weight.  Unobserved  by  him, 
the  two  servants  exchanged  humorously  rueful  glances: 
their  master's  periodical  visits  to  the  gardens  were  con- 
ducted in  the  spirit  of  a  captain's  Sunday  inspection  of  his 
ship;  an  unswept  leaf  on  the  close-cropped  lawns,  a  weed 
squeezing  its  way  through  the  tightly-packed  red  gravel 
were  signals  for  a  kindling  eye,  for  deepened  furrows 
from  nose  to  mouth,  for  a  rolling  thunder  of  rebuke.  His 
mood  was  not  likely  to  be  made  less  critical  by  his  son's 
fast  approaching  return. 

"Is  it  to-day  you're  expecting  Mr.  Deryk  home,  sir?" 
Benson  began  conversationally,  as  they  drew  away  from 
the  house  and  headed  for  the  stables. 

Sir  Aylmer  hesitated  appreciably  before  replying.  His 
long  pauses  and  slow  delivery  always  suggested  that  he 
was  trying  to  make  up  his  mind  whether  a  question  was 
worth  answering  and  whether  his  reply,  with  one  word  so 
long  separated  from  another,  gave  away  anything  that  any- 
one could  use.  He  did  not  suspect  his  associates  unduly, 
but,  as  his  habit  or  pose  was  never  to  say  a  thing  twice 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  17 

and  always  to  stand  unshakably  by  what  he  had  said,  it 
was  necessary  to  choose  his  terms  with  care. 

"He  wired  from  Paris.  I  expect  him  in  time  for  din- 
ner," he  answered. 

"It  don't  seem  Hke  two  years,"  Benson  pursued.  Sir 
Aylmer  felt  that  he  was  wincing  mentally.  "And  not  much 
of  a  day  to  come  home  to." 

This  time  there  really  seemed  no  need  to  answer,  but  the 
day,  in  its  intervals  of  specious  sunshine,  was  certainly  un- 
inviting. The  winter  of  191 3  was  breaking  up  prematurely, 
and  the  leafless  trees  dripped  on  to  the  steaming  earth  as 
though  their  very  fibre  were  melting.  From  the  west,  where 
the  forest  line  marked  the  Hampshire  border,  came  a  sound 
of  sliding  snow  splashing  in  avalanche  through  the  upper 
branches  of  the  trees  on  to  the  open  aisles  and  clearings; 
snow  still  lay  on  the  scarred  face  of  the  Sussex  downs  to 
the  south,  while  already,  on  the  north,  the  Surrey  hills 
were  slate-grey,  misty  and  warm.  Forgotten  pockets  of 
discoloured  snow  lingered  on  the  grass  borders  or  between 
the  banks  of  rhododendron  on  either  side  of  the  drive; 
melting  ice  and  snow  filled  the  dykes  in  the  park,  and  the 
ha-ha  was  beginning  to  overflow  into  the  garden.  In  the 
fifteen  years  that  had  passed  since  he  returned  from 
America  and  bought  the  house  from  Lord  Stornaway,  he 
had  never  seen  so  much  water  about ;  when  he  had  strength, 
he  must  go  into  the  question  of  draining  the  place  more 
rapidly.  In  the  meantime,  someone  had  been  taking  a  short 
cut  from  the  engine  house  to  the  west  lodge,  and  a  corner 
of  lawn  at  the  side  of  the  house  was  trodden  down  and 
shabby.  He  had  spoken  about  that  before,  and  someone 
would  have  to  go;  orders  were  meant  to  be  obeyed,  and 
without  discipline  and  obedience  it  was  impossible  to  get 
anything  done. 

The  inspection  of  garden,  outbuildings  and  house  was 
carried  out  with  vigilance  and  a  ruthless  particularity.  Sir 
Aylmer  felt  that  there  was  no  room  in  life  for  the  slack 
and  casual ;  time,  procedure  and  punctilio  had  to  be  ob- 
served, and  it  was  comforting  to  think  that  this  lesson 


1 8  MIDAS  AND  SON 

was  gradually  being  learnt,  so  that  the  life  of  Ripley 
Court  moved  like  a  perfect  piece  of  mechanism:  Philli- 
more,  the  elderly  confidential  secretary,  Benson,  the  male 
nurse,  Arkwright,  the  butler,  Mrs.  Benson,  the  house- 
keeper, Jepson,  the  agent,  were  beginning  to  appreciate 
that  you  got  most  done  and  wasted  least  time  by  slowly 
making  up  your  mind  and  then  treating  your  decision  as 
something  that  could  not  be  re-opened,  could  hardly  be 
discussed.  He  was  generally  accounted  a  slow  thinker — 
which  perhaps  meant  that  he  was  more  patient  than  his 
critics, — but  he  was  very  tenacious  when  he  had  finished 
thinking;  his  critics,  again,  called  him  obstinate — which 
perhaps  meant  that  they  were  eternally  shifting  and  chang- 
ing, while  he  had  finished  his  shifts  and  changes  before 
finally  making  up  his  mind.  He  knew  himself  better  than 
did  these  same  critics,  who,  by  the  way,  remained  critics 
while  he  created  one  of  the  largest  fortunes  in  America ; 
he  had  nothing  of  their  quickness  and  imagination,  but  a 
compensating  providence  had  given  him  a  stubborn,  clear- 
sighted sense  of  proportion  and  probability,  which  saved 
him  from  panic  and  impetuosity,  as  he  had  proved  a  dozen 
times,  when  they  lost  a  million  and  he  made  one. 

"You'll  leave  the  house  till  after  you've  had  your  lunch, 
sir?"  Benson  suggested,  as  they  completed  the  circle  of 
the  gardens  and  came  back  to  the  side  door.  Sir  Aylmer's 
face  looked  grey  with  the  unaccustomed  exertion,  the  mi- 
nute departure  from  routine,  and  it  was  Benson's  first  busi- 
ness to  watch  for  the  change  of  colour  and  make  tactful 
proposals  when  it  appeared. 

"I  told  Mrs.  Benson  I  would  go  round  before  luncheon,'* 
was  the  deliberate  answer.  It  was  not  infrequently  Ben- 
son's second  business  to  be  snubbed  for  his  pains. 

"You  remember  what  Dr.  Forsyte "  he  continued  per- 
suasively. 

"That  will  do,  Benson." 

Changing  into  his  wheeled  house-chair,  Sir  Aylmer  had 
himself  pushed  into  the  long  library  which  filled  the  whole 
south-west  projection  of  the  house  and  constituted  Deryk's 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  19 

kingdom.  Until  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  the 
Stornaways  had  maintained  it  from  a  sense  of  pride,  but 
in  the  last  hundred  years  poverty  of  scholarship  and  lack 
of  money  had  been  stronger  than  pride;  the  books  were 
uncatalogued,  ill-arranged  and  unreplenished,  their  bindings 
tattered,  their  pages  worm-eaten  and  the  mouldings  of 
their  cases  battered  and  defaced.  Deryk  had  repaired  the 
havoc  and  produced  a  catalogue ;  each  new  enthusiasm  was 
marked  by  a  new  collection,  and  in  the  map-cases  by  the 
fire  and  the  coin  cabinets  under  the  long,  narrow  windows 
could  be  traced  the  growth  of  his  later  literary  passions. 
A  third  of  the  floor-space  was  covered  with  white  wooden 
boxes  waiting  for  him  to  unpack.  The  books  had  been 
ordered  more  than  two  years  ago,  before  he  went  abroad; 
their  number  and  cost  were  characteristic  of  his  impetu- 
osity and  curious  ignorance  of  money.  Deryk  certainly  was 
impetuous,  but  his  brain  moved  quickly,  and  he  was  a 
wonderfully  rapid  learner;  he  could  speak  a  considerable 
number  of  languages,  he  was  a  scholar  of  proved  taste  and 
achievement,  he  was  a  musician.  Already  he  had  done  so 
much  that  there  seemed  nothing  of  the  few  things  remain- 
ing that  he  would  not  be  able  to  do — and  do  quickly; 
perhaps,  if  he  needed  more  time  to  learn  a  subject,  he 
would  not  abandon  it  so  quickly.  And  he  certainly  did 
abandon  a  new  enthusiasm  as  impetuously  as  he  took  it 
up — early  Church  music  (involving  a  new  organ  in  the 
chapel),  French  caricaturists  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
even  the  silver  age  of  Greek  civilisation,  on  which  he  was 
engaged  and  to  which  he  proposed  to  consecrate  his  life, 
when  he  was  sent  round  the  world.  Of  course  he  was 
young  enough  to  be  naturally  unstable;  he  would  want 
careful  watching  for  some  years  yet;  he  must  be  set  to 
work  and  kept  at  work,  otherwise  he  would  get  up  to  all 
kinds  of  mischief ;  he  must  decide  upon  his  career  ,  .  . 

A  wave  of  watery  sunlight  broke  through  the  February 
sky  and  shone  through  the  long,  deep-set  windows  of  the  li- 
brary. Over  the  rhododendrons  and  beyond  the  last  sweep 
of  the  drive,  Sir  Aylmer  could  see  a  pennant  of  bunting 


20  MIDAS  AND  SON 

hung  across  the  village  street  of  Aston  Ripley ;  the  school- 
children were  busy  setting  it  in  place  when  he  drove  by  in 
his  car,  and  he  had  noticed  that  the  bunting  bore  the 
single  word  "WELCOME."  His  cadaverous,  pain-twisted 
face  softened  to  a  smile  of  pleasure;  the  welcome  was 
rather  a  compliment  to  him  than  to  Deryk,  who  had  lived 
little  at  home,  but  he  accepted  it  on  the  boy's  behalf  and 
bowed  his  acknowledgments.  No  one  would  ever  know 
how  much  in  the  last  two  years  he  had  longed  for  this  day ; 
his  serv^ants,  elderly  and  uncommunicative  as  himself,  all 
equally  hushed  in  tone  and  spellbound  by  the  silence  and 
desolation  of  the  house,  would  never  know  the  sense  of 
vast  lifelessness  which  it  had  borne  since  Deryk  went  away. 

But  he  was  forgetting  his  promise  to  Mrs.  Benson. 
Glancing  cursorily  at  the  music-room  and  drawing-room 
he  had  himself  wheeled  into  the  ballroom  and  idly  pushed 
his  way  under  a  row  of  Stornaway  portraits  from  a  re- 
puted van  Dyck  to  an  undeniable  Lely,  struck  for  the  first 
time  by  the  immense  and  wasteful  size  of  the  house.  He 
had  kept  it  for  Deryk,  and  Deryk  would  be  able  to  fill  it, 
but  until  it  changed  hands  it  would  remain  an  unwieldy 
barrack  .  .  .  The  dining-room  he  did  not  need  to  see,  but 
he  spent  a  few  minutes  in  the  morning-room,  looking  curi- 
ously at  a  collection  of  black-figure  pottery;  he  had  almost 
forgotten  its  existence,  yet  at  one  time  it  was  said  to  be  the 
finest  private  collection  in  England ;  scholars  from  two  con- 
tinents had  come  to  photograph  it,  dealers  would  approach 
his  secretary  with  extravagant  offers,  and  on  Tuesdays  and 
Fridays  in  the  summer  months  cultured  tourists  would 
send  in  their  cards  and  be  led  round  by  Mrs,  Benson.  The 
elect  she  would  also  take  to  see  the  china  and  the  tapestry, 
but  the  other  collections  were  hidden  away  in  rooms  not 
open  to  the  public.  Sir  Aylmer  decided  that  some  day, 
when  he  had  the  strength,  he  must  look  into  this  ques- 
tion. .  .  . 

Leaving  the  morning-room  he  wheeled  himself  into  the 
hft  and  explored  the  upper  stories.  Since  Forsyte,  the 
Aston  Ripley  doctor,  had  told  him  to  avoid  stairs  and  make 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  21 

himself  a  bedroom  on  the  ground  floor,  he  had  hardly 
moved  from  his  narrow  circuit;  the  lift  was  for  emergen- 
cies, put  in  after  Deryk  had  been  ill ;  and  he  went  upstairs 
now,  less  to  oblige  Mrs.  Benson  than  to  see  that  Deryk's 
room  in  the  west  wing  over  the  library  was  in  fit  state  to 
receive  him.  Pushing  his  way  from  door  to  door,  he 
paused  on  the  threshold  of  the  central  room  over  the  hall ; 
it  had  once  been  his  own,  before  him  it  had  sheltered  the 
reigning  head  of  the  Stornaway  family,  and,  when  Deryk 
married,  it  would  be  for  him  and  his  wife.  Sir  Aylmer 
rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  unsteadily  to  the  window, 
looking  down  the  drive,  though  he  knew  that  he  could  ex- 
pect nothing  for  another  six  hours.  Of  late  he  had  been 
wondc-ing  what  manner  of  girl  Deryk  would  marry.  Be- 
fore leaving  England  he  had  seemed  too  much  absorbed 
in  his  books  and  music  to  spare  time  for  any  kind  ot  social 
life;  Ripley  Court  was  always  full  of  neighbours  and 
friends  for  the  few  weeks  of  his  vacations  that  he  spent  at 
home,  but,  though  they  came  at  his  invitation,  he  was  apt 
to  grow  tired  of  them  after  twenty-four  hours  and  leave 
them  to  amuse  themselves ;  these  were  the  days  when  Deryk 
allowed  his  hair  to  grow  untidily  long  and  lay  curled  in  an 
armchair  before  the  library  fire  wearing  disreputable  clothes 
and  never  troubling  to  change  out  of  slippers;  it  was  a 
period  of  slovenliness  and  unsociability.  Now,  however, 
he  was  five  and  twenty ;  he  must  have  met  many  women  and 
would  meet  more ;  the  relationship  of  father  and  son  would 
enter  upon  its  most  delicate  phase.  Deryk  must  be  pro- 
tected, of  course,  from  people  who  saw  him  only  as  the 
son  of  an  Anglo-American  millionaire,  but  beyond  that  he 
must  work  out  his  own  salvation.  .  ,  .  There  was  nothing 
like  letting  people  work  out  their  own  salvations. 
'  Returning  to  the  lift,  Sir  Aylmer  made  his  way  down- 
stairs, left  his  chair  in  the  hall  and  walked  into  the  dining- 
room.  Silent  and  alone  he  ate  an  unappetising  luncheon, 
specially  prepared,  and  retired  to  his  bedroom  for  the  pre- 
scribed half  hour's  rest;  a  book  lay  open  on  his  knees,  but 
his   mind   was   too    restless    for   him   to    concentrate   his 


22  MIDAS  AND  SON 

thoughts.  His  eyes  wandered  from  the  page  to  a  charcoal 
drawing  of  Deryk  by  Blessington,  completed  a  week  before 
sailing,  and  from  the  drawing  to  an  oil-portrait  of  his  w^ife. 
The  boy  had  his  mother's  brown  eyes  and  dark  hair,  but 
the  thin-lipped,  wilful  mouth,  the  bony,  fleshless  jaws  and 
temples,  the  straight,  rather  aquiline  nose  and  exhalation 
of  dominant,  nervous  vitality  came  from  the  other  side  at 
a  time  when  his  own  nervous  endurance  was  almost  pro- 
verbial in  New  York.  (She,  poor  soul,  had  unaccountably 
lost  vitality  when  she  married.)  Sir  Aylmer  looked  back, 
like  a  man  recalling  a  forgotten  story,  on  the  twelve  years 
in  which  he  had  risen  from  nothing  to  be  one  of  the  rich- 
est men  in  America.  In  moments  of  detachment  even  at 
the  time  of  his  greatest  triumph  he  used  occasionally  to  feel 
that  he  was  really  watching  someone  else  who  chanced  to 
bear  his  name ;  now  that  it  was  all  over,  there  seemed  noth- 
ing to  link  up  the  "A.  L.,"  whose  movements  and  operations 
were  followed  with  an  interest  only  accorded  to  kings  in 
Europe,  with  an  English  baronet,  broken  in  health  and 
looking  if  possible  even  nearer  to  death  than  he  really  was, 
thin,  bent,  lined  and  haggard,  revealing  only  by  flashes  and 
empty  smoke  the  volcanic  energy  and  will-power  of  other 
days.  Of  the  surge  and  thunder  of  New  York  not  an 
echo  or  reverberation  reached  him;  for  an  hour  or  two 
each  day  he  could  dictate  letters  and  answer  appeals  to 
his  charity;  perhaps  once  a  year  his  friend  Raymond 
Stornaway,  the  philanthropic  organiser,  would  explain  and 
interest  him  in  an  endowment  involving  a  hundred  thou- 
sand instead  of  the  normal,  wearisome  hundred.  But  he 
was  unequal  to  detailed  supervision ;  he  had  looked  on  im- 
potently,  while  the  Rhodes  Bequest  was  formed,  conscious 
that  he  could  never  undertake  a  similar  effort.  Ripley 
Court,  regarded  as  the  strong-room  in  which  the  Lancing 
Trust  Corporation  was  encased,  was  the  only  reminder  and 
tie. 

When  the  clock  liberated  him  from  his  irksome,  obliga- 
tory rest,  he  threw  aside  his  book,  walked  into  the  study 
next  to  his  bedroom  and  unlocked  a  drawer  of  his  writing- 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  23 

table.  A  revolving  wooden  rosette  concealed  a  keyhole  in 
the  carved  front  of  the  oak  book-case  facing  the  window, 
and  the  false  front  opened  to  reveal  a  small  steel  safe  with 
a  combination  lock,  within  which  lay  bundles  large  and 
small,  tied  with  tape  and  neatly  docketed,  envelopes  sealed 
and  open,  half  sheets  of  note  paper  and  leaves  torn  from 
a  pocket  book.  The  top  strata,  newest  in  date,  shewed 
the  scattered  flashes  of  a  brain  which  no  longer  burned 
with  steady  light.  There  were  notes  on  "Housing  Reform 
and  Politics,"  "The  Mechanism  of  a  Subsidised  Press" 
and  "Public  Health,"  unequal  in  design  and  all  of  them 
unfinished,  starting  as  elaborate  essays  and  ending  in 
phrases,  quotations  and  chapter  headings.  Below  them  lay 
a  fuller  study  of  "Free  Libraries  and  the  Control  of  Opin- 
ion," "The  International  Power  of  a  Creditor  Nation"  and 
"Powder  and  Shot."  Sir  Aylmer  turned  hurriedly  over 
this  last;  it  was  while  he  tested  the  power  of  a  man  or 
group  of  men  to  set  their  money  in  opposition  to  the  de- 
structive will  of  a  bellicose  nation  that  his  health  broke 
down;  he  was  curbing  democracy  by  withholding  supplies, 
as  formerly  the  bankers  had  curbed  their  kings,  and  he  had 
never  been  given  time  to  apply  his  test.  Now  he  was  un- 
equal to  trying  again.  The  yellow  manuscript  pages  of 
"Powder  and  Shot"  always  recalled  an  unsought  holiday  in 
the  South  Pacific,  followed  by  a  premature  return  to  New 
York,  followed  in  turn  by  aching  weeks  in  a  darkened 
house  on  Riverside  Drive,  wherein  he  tried  with  lips 
puckered  at  one  side  to  explain  that  all  would  be  well  with 
him  if  the  doctor  would  only  put  back  the  top  of  his  skull 
instead  of  leaving  the  brain  pulsing  in  agonised  expo- 
sure. ...  He  rapidly  turned  over  the  ragged-edged  es- 
says, seeking  to  drive  that  one  memory  away.  "The  De- 
velopment of  the  Mississippi  Valley"  was  ancient  history 
by  now  and  had  never  been  anything  but  a  commercial 
enterprise;  in  the  latter  days  of  his  power  he  had  come 
to  regard  commerce  and  finance  as  a  means  of  political  as- 
cendancy, it  was  in  this  light  that  he  would  have  Deryk 
regard  them.  .  .  . 


24  MIDAS  AND  SON 

The  leaden  sky  blackened  until  the  curving  lines  of  the 
drive  were  blotted  out.  A  footman  came  in  to  drav^r  the 
curtains,  but  Sir  Aylmer,  blinking  and  starting  out  of  his 
reverie  as  the  lights  were  turned  on,  shook  his  head. 

"I  want  to  see  the  car,  as  it  drives  up,"  he  said,  restoring 
his  papers  to  the  safe  and  locking  the  door. 

Then  he  pulled  an  armchair  at  right  angles  to  the  fire, 
so  that  he  could  command  the  windows,  and  sat  with  heavy 
eyes  half  closed,  at  one  moment  dozing,  at  another  rousing 
himself  to  look  at  the  clock,  his  face  in  repose  like  the 
death-mask  of  a  gaunt  old  prize-fighter.  The  fire  had  sunk 
low  and  the  room  was  filled  with  long,  flickering  shadows, 
when  the  faint  note  of  a  horn  was  followed  by  the  sound 
of  changing  gears.  Sir  Aylmer  clutched  the  arms  of  his 
chair  and  dragged  himself  painfully  upright ;  Benson  ought 
to  have  been  at  hand,  he  could  not  be  late  in  welcoming  his 
own  son  home;  there  was  neither  sight  nor  sound  of  the 
fellow,  and,  setting  his  teeth  and  first  steadying  himself 
against  the  table,  Sir  Aylmer  strode  erect  and  firm  into  the 
silent  hall.  Two  shafts  of  light  crept  creamily  along  the 
rusty  gravel,  as  he  threw  the  doors  open,  and  a  moment 
later  the  car  was  opposite  the  steps. 

"Dad !" 

A  lithe  figure  bounded  out  of  the  car,  straightened  itself 
and  ran  up  the  steps  three  at  a  time. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  home,  Deryk,"  said  Sir  Aylmer 
in  his  deep,  unmodulated  voice. 

"I'm  jolly  glad  to  be  home,  dad.  How  are  you?  How's 
Ripley?  How's  everything?"  demanded  Deryk,  shaking 
his  father's  hand,  then  shedding  his  coat  and  scarf  on  to 
the  floor,  throwing  his  hat  into  a  chair  and  shaking  hands 
a  second  time. 

Sir  Aylmer  gazed  long  at  the  lean,  travel-stained  face 
with  the  dancing,  brown  eyes  and  disordered  hair.  There 
was  the  same  impetuous  energy,  the  same  eager  impatience 
as  ever;  Deryk  seemed  unaged  and  unchanged  by  his  two 
years'  absence. 

"Everything's  much  the  same,"  he  answered  slowly  after 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  25 

his  usual  damping  hesitation ;  then  he  turned  again  with 
outstretched  hand  to  a  rosy,  benevolent  little  man,  who 
had  dawdled  on  the  steps  until  the  first  greetings  were  over. 
"How  are  you,  Ted?" 

"Tired  and  hungry,"  was  the  reply,  delivered  in  a  high, 
rather  nasal  voice.  "So'd  you  be,  if  you'd  tried  to  keep 
pace  with  Deryk  for  two  years.  I  told  you  at  the  outset  it 
was  no  part  of  a  family  solicitor's  business  to  turn  bear- 
leader at  my  time  of  life.  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again, 
Aylmer." 

The  three  men  stood  smiling  a  little  self-consciously  in 
a  silence  which  each  was  reluctant  to  break.  Sir  Aylmer 
and  Deryk  from  dislike  of  visible  emotion,  Hatherly 
through  a  sense  that  he  was  superfluous.  The  tension  was 
relaxed  by  Arkwright,  the  elderly  butler,  who  stepped  def- 
erentially forward  to  Sir  Aylmer  and  murmured  some- 
thing in  an  undertone. 

"Oh,  dinner  at  once,"  was  the  answer.  "As  soon  as 
they've  had  time  to  wash.  Deryk,  you — enjoyed  yourself, 
I  hope?    You  remember  you  weren't  very  anxious  to  go." 

"I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  the  world!"  Deryk  cried. 
"Lord,  yes!  I  wanted  to  be  a  mouldy  recluse  and  was 
frightfully  sick  when  you  wouldn't  let  me." 

"It's  not  too  late  yet,"  said  Sir  Aylmer  with  one  of  his 
rare  smiles,  flirting  timidly  with  a  lapse  into  banter. 


"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  now?"  Hatherly 
asked,  as  Deryk  ran  away  from  the  dining-room  to  an- 
nounce to  the  staff  his  return  home,  and  he  was  left  alone 
with  Sir  Aylmer  and  the  wine.  "You'll  find  him  a  handful, 
if  you  don't  set  him  to  work." 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  he  and  Deryk  had  taken  turns 
in  describing  their  two  years'  wanderings  through  India, 
Burmah  and  the  Straits  to  China,  Japan  and  Manchuria. 
Unlimited  by  time  and  money,  they  had  turned  south  to 
explore  the  Dutch  East  Indies  and  had  made  their  way  by 
Australia  and  New  Zealand  through  the  Pacific  Islands  to 


26  MIDAS  AND  SON 

San  Francisco,  where  they  struck  north  to  fetch  a  compass 
of  Canada  before  descending  through  the  States  of  Mexico 
and  South  America.  The  tour  was  to  give  Der>'k  a  breadth 
and  maturity  which  Eton  and  Magdalen  had  failed  to  im- 
part; he  was  to  see  the  world  in  its  variety  and  size  and  so 
in  some  measure  to  counteract  the  conventional  education 
which  his  father  deplored.  Successive  letters,  pursuing  the 
travellers  further  and  further  east,  demanded  in  terms 
whether  Deryk  was  becoming  a  little  more  manly,  less 
impetuous,  of  weightier  judgment.  Hatherly,  no  humour- 
ist himself,  found  difficulty  in  answering  these  solemn  de- 
mands for  daily  reports  without  becoming  unforgivably 
flippant.  The  letters  and  enquiries  followed  them  from 
Buenos  Aires  to  Teneriffe,  where  they  changed  to  a  Union 
Castle  liner  and  worked  round  the  Cape,  through  Rhodesia 
and  the  Lakes  to  East  Africa,  the  Sudan  and  Egypt ;  thence, 
with  a  sudden  pang  of  homesickness,  they  made  for  Brin- 
disi  and  home. 

"There's  plenty  for  him  to  do,"  murmured  Sir  Aylmer. 
"Did  he  give  you  much  trouble?" 

"Oh,  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary.  He's  just  what  you 
were  at  his  age,  though  too  restless,  too  energetic ;  the 
world's  not  quite  big  enough  for  him  to  conquer." 

Hatherly  poured  himself  out  a  second  glass  of  port  wine 
and  sipped  it  appreciatively,  looking,  with  his  bald  head, 
large  spectacles  and  twinkling  eyes,  like  a  reincarnation  of 
Mr.  Pickwick.  "At  his  age — no,  you  must  have  been  older 
then.  D'you  remember  that  peculiarly  bleak  March  morn- 
ing when  you  strode  into  my  office,  remarking  that  you'd 
had  as  much  as  you  could  stand?  I  never  imagined 
then.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off  and  gazed  round  the  long  room  with  its 
rows  of  departed  Stornaways,  finally  letting  his  eyes  rest 
upon  his  friend's  face. 

Sir  Aylmer  hesitated  long,  and  his  eyes,  too,  wandered 
round  the  great  room  in  which  the  table  was  like  an  island 
of  light  in  a  dark  sea. 

"I  never  imagined,  either.  .  .  ."  he  muttered.    Both  met?- 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  27 

had  sunk  their  voices,  as  though  they  were  discussing  a 
guilty  secret.  Ripley  Court  invited  a  subdued,  deferential 
tone. 

"You  wanted  me  to  come  with  you,"  said  Hatherly,  half 
to  himself. 

Sir  Aylmer  nodded. 

"If  we  had  our  time  over  again,  Ted.  .  .  ." 

Hatherly  wrinkled  his  nose  and  thrust  out  his  lower  lip 
dubiously. 

"With  power  to  look  into  the  future?"  he  asked.  "I 
should  have  come.  Any  man  born  of  woman  would  have 
come.  I  don't  say  that  I  shouldn't  have  regretted  it  later, 
of  course." 

Sir  Aylmer  lay  back  like  a  venerable,  dying  king  on  a 
carved  throne. 

"I  sometimes — wonder — whether  I  should  have  gone — 
at  all,"  he  said  very  slowly. 

On  that  bleak  March  morning  thirty  years  before,  Ayl- 
mer Lancing,  barrister-at-law,  had  called  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields  to  take  farewell  of  his  only  friend.  Then  and  al- 
ways, unlike  Deryk,  he  lacked  the  art  of  making  friends 
easily ;  Hatherly  he  had  met  six  or  eight  years  earlier  at  a 
Fleet  Street  chop-house,  and  an  acquaintance  begun  over 
a  game  of  dominoes  had  ripened  into  a  friendship  based 
on  loneliness  and  common  poverty.  Hatherly  was  an  ar- 
ticled clerk ;  Lancing,  by  the  desire  of  his  father,  who  was 
an  unprosperous  general  practitioner  in  Cheshire,  had  lately 
got  himself  called  to  the  Bar  and  was  entering  upon  the 
lean,  early  years  of  a  profession  that  from  the  first  was 
profoundly  uncongenial  to  him.  His  mental  qualities  of 
tenacity  and  slow  commonsense  were  always  obscured  by 
inelasticity.  For  half  a  dozen  years  he  added  to  his  father's 
modest  allowance  by  an  occasional  summons  or  dock  de- 
fence, but  in  all  that  time  his  fees  on  circuit  did  not  pay 
his  expenses,  and  of  a  London  practice  he  had  nothing  at 
all.  The  modest  allowance  paid  his  share  of  a  clerk  and 
chamber-rent  and  a  subscription  to  the  Law  Reports ;  he 
contrived  further  to  feed  and  clothe  himself  and  to  con- 


28  MIDAS  AND  SON 

tribute  his  quota  of  the  expenses  of  a  joint  establishment 
with  Hatherly  and  a  journalist  in  Gray's  Inn.  When  Dr. 
Lancing  died  of  bronchitis  in  the  winter  of  1882,  the  lux- 
ury of  running  the  legal  profession  at  a  loss  had  to  be  cut 
short.  Selling  his  books  and  leaving  one  third  of  the  furni- 
ture in  satisfaction  of  all  claims  for  rent,  Aylmer  Lancing 
sailed  from  England  with  three  letters  of  introduction  and 
a  single  trunk. 

"I've  had  about  as  much  of  this  as  I  can  stand,"  he  had 
told  Hatherly  between  set  teeth,  scowling  out  of  the  rain- 
blurred  windows  on  to  the  hated  roof  of  Lincoln's  Inn. 
"I  must  go  to  some  place  where  I'm  mixing  with  intellec- 
tual inferiors;  then  I  shall  come  into  my  own." 

"But  why  go  to  America?"  Hatherly  had  urged. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  failure  here.  I  want  to  make  a  fresh  start 
without  any  record  to  live  down.  I  shall  wander  about 
America  till  I  find  some  job  that  I  can  do  better  than  men 
who've  been  spared  a  public  school  education  and  a  legal 
training.     So  far  I've  always  worked  above  my  level." 

And  on  that  word  he  had  shaken  hands  with  his  friend, 
driven  to  the  station  and  turned  his  back  on  London  and 
the  eight  years  of  his  life  that  it  had  wasted.  On  arriving 
in  New  York,  he  presented  his  letters  of  introduction  and 
was  received  with  lavish  hospitality.  His  entertainers, 
however,  drew  a  rigid  line  between  their  private  and  their 
commercial  life.  Of  Lancing's  abilities  and  integrity  they 
knew  nothing,  and  any  position  that  they  could  offer  to  a 
stranger  was  felt  by  them  to  be  not  worth  offering.  Half 
jocularly  he  told  them  that  there  was  no  job  he  would  not 
undertake,  but  they  preferred  to  disbelieve  him,  and,  when 
he  had  made  the  circuit  of  their  houses,  he  remained  with 
no  more  prospects  and  fewer  resources  than  the  latest  ar- 
rived Irish  immigrant. 

"It  is  as  easy  to  starve  on  Broadway  as  in  Fleet  Street," 
he  wrote  to  Hatherly  a  few  months  later  with  an  unfor- 
giving ferocity  that  oozed  through  the  lines  of  his  letter, 
"but  perhaps  not  so  pleasant."  His  next  letter  sounded  a 
note  of  sombre  triumph.     "I  have   found  a  greater  fool 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  29 

than  myself.  After  working  an  elevator  in  a  block  on 
Fourth  Avenue,  I've  been  taken  in  as  book-keeper  to  a  firm 
of  real  estate  agents.  Their  regular  man  v^ent  sick,  but, 
as  book-keeping  is  no  part  of  a  legal  training,  I  reckon  on 
being  fired  as  soon  as  he  comes  back." 

A  month  later,  however,  he  was  still  in  the  same  em- 
ployment, though  no  longer  as  book-keeper.  His  deliber- 
ate, unhurried  sanity  of  outlook  impressed  his  principals, 
and  he  was  invited  to  stay  on  with  an  increased  salary  and 
enhanced  responsibilities.  His  firm  was  agent  to  the  West- 
ern Development  Syndicate,  and  the  chief  of  Lancing's 
duties  was  to  survey  and  report  on  suitable  properties  for 
the  Syndicate  to  acquire  in  its  great  developing  march  into 
the  Middle  West.  Nothing  in  his  early  training  had  pre- 
pared him  for  the  work,  but  his  unrefined,  brutal  faculty 
of  grasping  primitive  essentials  enabled  him  now  to  choose 
almost  unfalteringly  the  sites  on  which  townships  would 
later  have  inevitably  to  be  built  and  the  natural  trade 
routes  which  the  railroads  would  inevitably  have  to  fol- 
low. He  would  not  be  hurried;  he  would  not  confuse 
himself  with  non-essentials  and  irrelevancies.  Westward 
from  Indianapolis  and  Springfield  to  Kansas  City,  Lancing 
prospected  and  bought.  The  new  Illinois-Iowa-Colorado 
road  was  in  contemplation,  and  there  was  hardly  a  limit 
to  the  options  which  his  principals  were  prepared  to  secure 
for  the  Syndicate.  Lancing  enjoyed  the  responsibility  and 
the  sense  of  handling  large  sums  of  money.  He  was  well- 
paid,  he  told  Hatherly,  though  it  would  be  long  before  he 
could  feel  secure ;  as  a  bachelor  of  simple  tastes,  however, 
he  was  able  to  save  a  substantial  portion  of  his  salary. 
"Money  isn't  my  first  consideration,"  he  wrote.  "It  comes 
second  or  third  or  fourth.  First  of  all  there's  self-es- 
teem ;  there's  no  sensation  in  the  world  like  'making  good.' 
Then  there's  responsibility  and  the  gratification  of  feeling 
that  people  trust  you.  In  England  I've  defended  a  mur- 
derer before  now,  but  he  never  trusted  me ;  he'd  never  have 
looked  at  me  if  he  could  have  got  anyone  else.  Here  people 
put  millions  of  dollars  into  my  hands,  knowing  that,  if  I 


30  MIDAS  AND  SON 

let  them  down,  their  business  will  begin  to  look  a  bit 
sick.  .  .  .  But  best  of  all  there's  the  excitement  of  doing 
business.  As  money  grubbers  I  suppose  the  Yanks  don't 
compare  with  the  French,  the  Germans,  the  Chinese,  the 
Jews.  They  just  love  business  for  the  interest  of  the 
thing,  and,  on  my  soul,  if  you've  got  a  continent  this  size 
to  play  with,  not  a  hundredth  part  developed,  you  can  un- 
derstand their  keenness.  I'm  a  richer  man  than  when  I 
came  out,  but  I  don't  see  myself  a  millionaire  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  one.  .  .  ." 

This  letter  was  written  one  month,  and  reached  Hatherly 
one  week,  before  an  event  which  made  Aylmer  Lancing  a 
millionaire  more  quickly  and  unexpectedly  than  had  ever 
happened  even  in  a  continent  of  easy  millions.  His  prin- 
cipals had  sent  him  to  Charleston,  Illinois,  to  report  on  the 
advisability  of  the  Illinois-Iowa-Colorado  railroad  running 
a  loop  line  to  pick  up  the  stores  of  grain  which  were  as- 
sembled in  Charleston  from  the  wheat  fields  of  the  west  and 
despatched  by  water  to  the  railhead  at  Banbury.  His  day's 
work  done.  Lancing  was  walking  up  and  down  the  mile- 
long  main  street  of  the  town,  smoking  a  last  cigar  before 
going  to  bed,  when  he  observed  a  red  glare  in  the  sky  at 
the  eastern  end ;  as  he  walked,  the  glare  spread,  and  a  sound 
of  shouting  beat  upon  his  ears.  Within  five  minutes  the 
flames,  leaping  from  block  to  block,  were  roaring  over  a 
quarter  of  the  street ;  the  crazy,  green  and  white  wooden 
houses  belched  forth  a  stream  of  panic-stricken  men  and 
women,  and  still  the  gently  fanning  breeze  urged  the 
tongues  of  fire  over  the  side  streets  to  lick  the  blistering 
wood-work  on  the  other  side. 

For  several  minutes  Lancing  stood  motionless,  drunk 
with  the  wild  beauty  and  awed  by  the  loishing  roar  of  the 
flames.  Then  he  decided  that  the  fire  must  be  stopped. 
Three  more  blocks  had  been  swallowed  with  a  hungry  roar 
before  he  thought  out  the  means,  but  thereafter  he  acted 
quickly  and  unswervingly.  Doubling  back,  he  shouted  for 
volunteers  to  help  demolish  a  block  in  the  path  of  the  racing 
fire.    Scared  men  hurried  up  at  sound  of  a  voice  that  would 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  31 

command  them,  and,  after  twenty  minutes'  frenzied  work 
with  axes  and  crowbars,  a  yawning  gulf,  too  wide  for  the 
flames  to  bridge,  had  been  carved  in  the  side  of  the  street. 
At  the  head  of  his  volunteers  Lancing  ran  back  and  drove 
a  dazed  crowd  at  the  point  of  a  crowbar  westward  out  of 
the  town  and  into  safety.  All  night  long  the  fire  roared  in 
the  great  grain  repositories,  but  its  path  to  the  west  was 
barred,  and  a  saving  line  of  wharf-frontage  and  canal 
checked  its  progress  to  the  south. 

At  day-break  the  heat  had  abated  its  fury  enough  to 
allow  the  townsfolk  to  venture  back.  Of  the  business  half 
of  the  town  there  remained  a  flaky  stretch  of  grey  ashes ; 
the  Indian  quarter  was  largely  untouched,  and  perhaps  a 
third  of  the  modern  extension  to  the  west  had  escaped.  As 
a  commercial  centre  Lancing  saw  that  Charleston  had 
ceased  to  exist. 

"But  it  won't  take  long  to  rebuild,"  he  said  deliberately, 
looking  from  the  flimsy  wooden  shanties  to  a  grey-faced 
man  who  was  staring  stonily  at  the  charred  and  smoulder- 
ing barge  which  represented  the  salvage  of  his  fortunes. 

"What  kind  of  fool's  going  to  rebuild  it?"  was  the  an- 
swer. "Guess  I'm  going  to  make  tracks  for  Minneapolis 
or  Grantstown  before  the  crowd  gets  started.  Rebuild ! 
This  township's  burnt  out  of  the  map." 

Lancing  looked  at  the  man  in  surprise.  He  was  wrong; 
the  fire  and  his  own  losses  had  unsteadied  his  nerve;  geo- 
graphically and  for  a  dozen  other  reasons  the  city  would 
have  to  be  rebuilt.  No  one  shared  his  opinion,  however,  and, 
when  he  engaged  in  similar  discussions  with  other  men 
that  day,  the  upshot  was  always  the  same ;  Charleston  was 
off  the  map,  out  of  the  L^nion,  derelict  and  damned ;  her 
citizens  were  m.igrating  in  a  body,  and  he  could  pay  his 
hotel  bill  and  quit  or  buy  the  hotel  at  a  knock-out  price  and 
run  it  him.self.  The  hotel-keeper  spoke  with  the  hyperbole 
of  bitterness,  for,  whereas  the  grain  and  its  repositories  were 
insured,  no  policy  would  cover  the  destruction  of  the  city 
as  a  place  of  business.  Within  a  month  it  would  rank 
with  the  tumble-down,  deserted  towns  of  the  Far  West,  a 


32  MIDAS  AND  SON 

forgotten  footprint  in  the  march  of  progress.  Lancing 
could  buy  the  whole  city  for  the  price  of  a  Wall  Street 
office,  he  was  assured. 

Slow-minded,  obstinate  and  detached,  he  refused  to  share 
the  easy  assumption  that  the  history  of  Charleston  was 
closed.  The  canal  system,  linked  with  the  Mississippi,  was 
undestroyed  and  indestructible ;  a  new  town  could  be  run 
up  in  wood  by  the  month's  end,  in  stone  at  the  end  of  six. 
Even  if  the  Illinois-Iowa-Colorado  road  passed  by  on  the 
north,  even  if  it  proved  beyond  human  contrivance  to 
build  a  loop  line,  the  town  was  worth  buying  for  its  water- 
ways and  roads,  which  he  had  seen  stretching  out  into  the 
rolling  wheat  land  of  the  west.  And  there  was  always  the 
chance  that  it  might  be  joined  up  by  rail. 

At  the  end  of  thirty  hours'  brooding  on  one  subject, 
Lancing  made  up  his  mind  and  secured  an  option  on  the 
hotel  on  behalf  of  the  Western  Development  Syndicate, 
which  carried  more  weight  than  the  names  of  his  princi- 
pals. He  had  no  authority  to  pledge  name  or  credit,  but  he 
was  always  given  a  free  hand ;  he  had  so  often  exceeded 
his  authority  and  been  joyously  indemnified.  For  a  week 
he  bought  steadily:  first  the  solid  properties  that  were  un- 
touched, then  the  smouldering  ruins,  then  the  undeveloped 
outskirts  of  the  town.  When  it  was  known  in  the  first 
feverish  exodus  that  an  eccentric  was  prepared  to  purchase 
charred  foundations,  deserted  streets  and  trackless  waste 
land,  the  vanishing  proprietors  of  Charleston  jostled  each 
other  to  unload  their  lots  before  the  eccentric  regained 
sanity.  Unhurriedly — he  was  too  tired  to  hurry — Lancing 
pored  over  his  plans,  while  excited  sellers  undercut  one 
another ;  by  the  week's  end  he  had  acquired  the  whole  town 
with  the  exception  of  an  insignificant  negro  quarter  where 
the  titles  were  dubious.  Then,  giddy  with  want  of  sleep, 
he  packed  his  papers  and  returned  to  New  York. 

His  principals  were  surprised  to  see  him  back  at  such  a 
time.  They  were  incredulous  and  dismayed  when  he  de- 
scribed the  purchases  to  which,  on  his  single  responsibility, 
he  had  committed  their  chief  client.    The  size  of  the  trans- 


SI  yi^ILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  33 

action  alone  frightened  them;  they  were  not  prepared  to 
argue  or  be  persuaded.  Millions  of  dollars  had  been 
pledged  by  an  unauthorised  agent  to  an  undertaking  which 
the  firm  had  had  no  opportunity  of  judging;  as  real  estate 
agents  they  could  have  nothing  to  do  with  it  themselves ; 
as  agents  to  the  Western  Development  Syndicate  they  de- 
clined to  risk  their  connection  by  recommending  so  fran- 
tic a  speculation.  Lancing  had  gone  in  single-handed; 
single-handed  he  must  extricate  himself. 

He  spent  a  day  digesting  the  decision  and  then  made  his 
way  to  the  offices  of  the  Syndicate  itself  and  laid  bare  his 
proposals.  If  his  contracts  were  repudiated,  the  liability 
would  fall  on  his  shoulders  alone,  and  he  had  not  as  many 
cents  as  the  dollars  he  had  pledged.  It  was  bad  enough  to 
be  faced  with  the  legal  consequences  of  his  venture,  but 
financial  ruin  was  easier  to  bear  than  the  sense  of  oppor- 
tunity wantonly  thrown  away.  To  the  man  who  had  seen 
Charleston  before  the  fire  and  after,  it  was  inconceivable 
that  it  should  not  rise  again  to  be  one  of  the  leading  grain 
markets  of  the  Middle  West.  He  explained,  described  and 
pleaded,  but  the  rock-like  faces  before  him  only  relaxed  to 
become  derisive.  Against  the  judgment  of  the  whole  city 
he  had  decided  that  a  certain  industry  was  to  be  concen- 
trated in  a  certain  place;  while  he  bought  the  sites,  the 
industry  was  taking  wings  northward,  unable  and  unwilling 
to  wait  while  the  town  was  rebuilt.  What  stress  or  induce- 
ment could  he  offer  to  force  or  woo  the  scattered  towns- 
folk back  to  their  homes? 

Lancmg  left  the  Syndicate  and  demanded  an  interview 
with  the  President  of  the  Illinois-Iowa-Colorado  Railroad, 
to  whom  he  offered  the  options  on  condition  that  the  loop 
line  was  immediately  constructed.  After  two  days  and  one 
night  of  negotiations  an  agreement  was  reached.  The  rail- 
road corporation  took  up  the  options  and  paid  Lancmg 
generously  in  ordinary  stock ;  a  new  syndicate  was  formed 
to  rebuild  Charleston,  and  at  a  convenient  season  the  press 
announced  that  arrangements  had  been  made  to  link  up 
the  city  with  the  main  east-and-west  system,  which  would 


34  MIDAS  AND        b 

> 
not,  as  had  been  unofficially  suggests ^,  ^an  through  Grants- 
town.  Within  forty-eight  hours  of  the  announcement,  the 
Gran'stcAvn  immigrants,  betrayed  and  helpless,  were  pour- 
ing south  again,  and  the  men  who  had  sold  a  month  earlier 
at  break-up  prices  now  bought  on  a  soaring  market  every 
yard  of  land  which  the  railroad  corporation  would  offer. 

A  year  later,  when  his  city  was  rebuilt.  Lancing  was  a 
rich  man,  by  any  standard ;  but  his  riches  were  only  be- 
ginning to  accumulate.  The  rebuilding  forced  him  into 
new  fields  of  enterprise,  and  he  found  himself  automatically 
buying  lumber  and  steel  for  the  rising  city.  As  the  rail- 
road laid  its  tracks  further  and  further  west,  Lancing  be- 
came ever  richer ;  when  the  New  Mexico  and  Montana  line 
was  in  contemplation,  his  was  the  largest  single  subscription 
of  capital,  and  the  same  automatic  development  compelled 
him  to  buy  a  fleet  of  lake  steamers  to  operate  in  conjunction 
with  the  new  railroad.  From  transportation  it  was  a  short 
step  to  acquire  an  interest  in  the  things  transported,  and 
Lancing's  freight  cars  began  to  carry  Lancing's  grain  over 
Lancing's  system. 

"They  say  of  you,"  he  was  told  by  a  Boston  girl  whom  he 
met  in  the  summer  of  "86  at  Atlantic  City  and  was  to  marry 
the  following  year,  "that  folk  can't  get  in  or  out  of  America 
or  travel  around  or  take  an  apartment  or  buy  a  little  bit 
of  lighting  or  heat  without  A.  L.'s  leave." 

"Well,  I  guess  that's  pretty  well  so,"  Lancing  answered. 
"And  without  paymg  something  into  A.  L.'s  pocket.  1 
wouldn't  just  like  to  say  how  it's  all  come  about,  but  it  has. 
One  thing  leads  to  another,  you  see." 

"But  what  d'you  make  out  to  do  with  it  all?"  the  girl 
pursued. 

Lancing  considered  her  deliberately. 

"If  I  could  get  away,  I'd  like  to  take  a  run  around  Lon- 
don for  a  piece  to  shew  them  that  I'd  measured  up,"  he 
answered. 

"And  then?" 

"Then  I  guess  I  sort  of  got  to  get  back  here." 

"To  make  more  money?" 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  35 

"Sure." 

The  girl  returned  to  her  first  question. 
"But  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 
"I  never  rightly  thought  that  up,"  Lancing  replied.    "It — 
it  isn't  the  money.    I'm  not  sure  that  I  know  what  it  is." 


"You  ought  to  have  stayed  over  here  after  you  were  mar- 
ried," said  Hatherly,  breaking  the  long  silence.  He  had 
drunk  his  wine  and  was  now  cutting  a  cigar  in  the  com- 
panionship of  his  own  thoughts ;  Sir  Aylmer,  who  neither 
drank  wine  nor  smoked,  had  been  sitting  sunk  in  his  chair, 
twirling  the  stem  of  a  wine-glass  between  thumb  and  first 
finger  and  gazing  fixedly  through  half-closed  eyes  into  the 
gloom,  beyond  the  yellow  circle  of  candle-light.  Neither 
noticed  any  break  of  connection  or  pause  in  their  conver- 
sation. 

"I  meant  to,"  answered  Sir  Aylmer.  "Heaven  knows 
what  I  should  have  done;  I've  been  trying  to  find  out  the 
last  fifteen  years,  but  I  meant  to.  I  as  good  as  promised 
Gwen  I  would,  before  we  married.  Then  you  remember 
I  met  Raymond  on  the  boat,  and  he  set  me  thinking." 

In  1887  Lancing  had  married  the  Boston  girl.  They 
spent  a  leisurely  honeymoon  in  Europe,  staying  with 
Hatherly  as  they  passed  through  London,  and  returned  to 
America  in  time  for  Mrs.  Lancing's  confinement.  On  the 
voyage  west  their  places  in  the  saloon  were  opposite  an 
untidy,  cheerfully  rebellious  young  man  named  Raymond 
Stornaway,  who  was  being  despatched  against  his  will  to 
Washington  as  a  Third  Secretary  in  the  British  Embassy. 
At  Trinity,  Cambridge,  he  had  been  at  least  the  most  dis- 
putatious of  an  advanced  school  of  Philosophic  Radicals 
and  was  ready  then,  as  throughout  life,  to  express  theories 
on  all  subjects,  ever  posing  as  the  simple,  sane  man  in  a 
world  of  criminals  and  lunatics,  but  avoiding  ofifence  by 
his  obviously  sincere  belief  in  his  ephemeral  ideas.  Books 
undigested  and  phrases  misunderstood  simmered  and  boiled 
in  his  eager  brain,  and  throughout  his  conversation  ran  a 


36  MIDAS  AND  SON 

strain  of  good-humoured  cynicism  instilled  by  a  quarter  of 
a  century  of  life  as  the  younger  son  of  an  impoverished 
peer  with  an  obsolete  conception  of  what  became  his  family. 
With  the  omniscience  of  five  and  twenty  he  poured  out 
ideas  to  Lancing  as  the  two  strolled  up  and  down  the  decks 
on  the  first  night  of  an  acquaintance  arising  out  of  Storn- 
away's attack  on  all  rich  men  of  all  countries  and  ages. 
He  was  only  waiting  to  become  rich  himself  to  instruct  the 
world. 

"I  wanted  to  go  into  business  when  I  left  school,"  he 
confided,  "but  the  family  thought  it  was  infra  dig.  Dam' 
nonsense !  We're  as  poor  as  church  mice.  I  want  power, 
sir;  I  feel  I  could  do  such  a  lot  if  I  had  the  money.  Very 
few  people  know  how  to  spend  money  on  a  large  scale,  but 
I'm  sure  I'm  one." 

"What  would  you  do?"  asked  his  companion.  "By  the 
way,  my  name's  Lancing." 

"Mine's  Stornaway.  Are  you  the  Lancing?  Then  it's 
quite  clear  I've  put  my  foot  into  it." 

"Tell  me  what  you'd  do,  before  we  discuss  that,"  Lanc- 
ing suggested.  "You  may  find  that  I'm  one  of  the  very 
large  class  that  doesn't  know  how  to  spend  money  on  a  big 
scale.  I've — I've  never  tried;  I'm  not  sure  that  I  should 
know  how  to  start.  I  simply  put  more  and  more  money 
into  more  and  more  things ;  ultimately  my  income  looks 
like  increasing  beyond  control.  I — don't  quite  know  how 
it's  come  about." 

Young  Stornaway  led  the  way  to  two  chairs  by  the  boat- 
deck  companionway  and  indulged  in  an  hour-long  mono- 
logue on  the  social  and  political  possibilities  of  wealth — the 
eradication  of  disease,  the  control  of  opinion,  the  capture 
of  education — subjects  which  were  afterwards  to  develop 
into  the  yellow-paged  essays  in  the  safe.  He  was  equally 
prepared  to  start  a  revolution  or  stop  a  war;  in  his  hands 
money  was  equally  potent  for  either. 

"People  tie  themselves  in  such  knots,"  Stornaway  com- 
plained. "They  won't  stick  to  the  essentials.  If  you  want 
to  make  the  world  contented,  if  you  want  to  make  it  do  your 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  37 

work,  you  must  keep  it  healthy,  warm  and  well-fed.  To 
make  it  discontented,  arrange  for  some  to  be  better  fed 
than  others.  Surely  that's  simple  enough  ?  God  knows, 
I  don't  want  to  reform  mankind,  but  with  your  money  I 
could.  I'd  play  on  their  jealousy,  which  is  one  of  the 
strongest  human  instincts  I  know ;  I'd  plan  a  city.  .  .  ." 

With  wild  gesticulations  and  mischievous  gurgles  of 
laughter,  as  his  theme  developed,  Raymond  Stornaway  elab- 
orated his  scheme  for  a  model  industrial  town  with  every 
house  a  palace  of  luxury  and  every  tenant  secure  in  pos- 
session as  long  as  he  observed  his  landlord's  terms — "Turn 
a  man  out,  if  he  gets  drunk  twice;  his  wife  will  look  at 
her  central  heating,  her  labour-saving  appliances,  her  pound 
of  comfort  for  a  shilling  of  rent,  and  she'll  take  darned 
good  care  that  the  first  time  her  ruffian  of  a  husband  gets 
drunk  is  also  the  last.  The  tenants  will  cling  to  their  houses 
like  death,  and,  if  you  set  up  your  model  city  at  Pitts- 
burg, all  Bethlehem  will  go  on  strike  until  the  people  there 
have  model  houses,  and  the  strikes  will  spread  until  every- 
one's living  below  cost.  Spoil  the  market,  spoil  the  market 
for  your  rivals ;  make  them  build  model  cities  in  competi- 
tion, and  in  five  years  you'll  have  revolutionised  working- 
class  housing  conditions.  Once  your  people  are  comfort- 
able, clean  and  healthy,  you  can  do  something  with  them ; 
and  all  the  while  they're  tenants  on  your  terms ;  you  can 
reject  a  man  who  doesn't  believe  in  the  Trinity,  you  can 
play  such  tricks  with  their  moral,  religious,  political  faith 
as  would  stagger  human  imagination.     You  see  that,  sir?" 

Aylmer  Lancing  had  lagged  a  pace  behind  his  young 
friend's  argument. 

"I  should  have  to  think  that  out  a  bit,"  he  said. 

Stornaway  hurried  excitedly  down  a  newly  revealed 
avenue. 

"Think  of  the  political  effect  of  it,  sir!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Of  course  you've  got  to  be  rich,  because  you're  feeding 
and  housing  an  entire  people  out  of  your  own  pocket,  but, 
once  you've  started,  you  can  always  make  the  other  rich 
men  take  their  share,  because  no  one's  rich  enough  to  be 


38  MIDAS  AND  SON 

outdone  by  you.  Well,  start  a  scheme  of  housing  reform 
in  Lancashire,  make  yourself  king  of  your  own  people,  buy 
up  the  papers  and  shove  them  down  people's  throats  below 
cost.  My  dear  sir,  there  will  be  strikes  and  riots  until 
everyone  is  living  in  the  same  luxury  as  your  people.  The 
infection  will  spread  to  Yorkshire,  carried  by  your  sub- 
sidised press ;  there'll  be  parliamentary  candidates ;  in  half 
a  dozen  years  not  only  will  you  have  revolutionised  housing 
conditions,  but  you'll  have  given  yourself  feudal  power 
over  the  souls  and  bodies  of  your  tenants.  Of  course,  the 
press  has  been  shamefully  neglected.  .  .  ." 

In  a  rapid  digression  young  Stornaway  sketched  a  news- 
paper trust  which  was  to  undersell  the  old  papers,  ruin 
them  and  buy  the  ruins  at  break-up  prices  until  no  single 
paper  remained  outside  the  ring.  Tories  and  Radicals 
should  have  each  their  old,  proper  organ,  but  the  direction 
would  come  from  a  single  controlling  hand.  And  some  day, 
when  opposition  had  been  killed,  the  thousand  mouths  of  the 
trust  would  speak  with  one  voice.  And  the  controlling 
hand  would  grasp  such  power  as  had  never  been  wielded 
before. 

"It  will  take  time  to  buy  or  break  up  old  family  prop- 
erties like  the  'Times'  or  tlie  'Alorning  Post,'  but  you 
can  start  doing  it  to-morrow.  Hitherto  the  press  has  been 
established  by  relatively  poor  men,  who  can't  take  fancy 
risks ;  now  your  first  job  is  to  see  that  every  man  in  the 
country  gets  a  better  paper  at  a  cheaper  price,  whatever  it 
may  cost  you.  Give  it  away,  if  you  like,  but  see  that  it 
gets  everywhere;  you  can  afford  it,  you  can  fling  away 
money  for  a  year  or  two,  if  at  the  end  you're  going  to  get 
your  rivals  coming  to  you  on  their  knees.  And  your  power 
as  head  of  a  newspaper  trust.  .  .  .  It's  like  my  scheme 
for  getting  control  of  public  education.  .  .  ," 

The  deck  was  growing  gradually  deserted,  but  Lancing 
seemed  disposed  to  sit  listening  for  a  while  longer.  Storn- 
away pursued  an  unwearied  course  of  explanatory  declama- 
tion. He  was  convinced  that  all  thought  and  expression 
could  be  controlled  bv  the  man  v/ho  took  the  trouble  to 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  39 

control  education.  Existing  schools  and  universities  must 
be  left  where  they  were  for  the  present,  but  in  rivalry  any 
rich  man  could  establish  a  chain  of  private  school,  public 
school  and  college  with  such  endowments  that  the  stream 
of  candidates  would  be  drawn  off  the  older  schools  and 
diverted  to  the  new.  Once  the  pupils  were  secured,  they 
could  be  taught  anything. 

"You  will  have  control  of  these  boys  and  girls — don't  for- 
get to  corrupt  the  girls'  minds  too ;  they're  the  future 
mothers — from  six  to  twenty-six,  starting  with  a  kinder- 
garten and  ending  with  a  travelling  fellowship,  fat  scholar- 
ships the  whole  way.  You  can  decide  that  the  only  doc- 
trines taught  are  to  be  the  literal  inspiration  of  the  Old 
Testament  and  Mill's  Utilitarianism.  The  parents  will  fall 
over  one  another  to  get  their  children  in,  if  the  scholarships 
are  large  enough  and  you  provide  plenty  to  eat.  There's 
no  insanity  of  education  that  you  can't  get  people  to  swal- 
low, if  only  it's  sufficiently  endowed.  .  .  .  Look  what 
they  teach  at  an  English  public  school !  Good  God,  when 
I  was  at  Cambridge,  they  solemnly  insisted  on  my  reading 
Paley's  'Evidences  of  Christianity.'  Now,  think  of  my  co- 
lossal power,  if  I  can  set  up  private  schools,  public  schools, 
universities,  where  only  my  doctrines  would  be  taught 
and  where  the  boys  would  simply  have  to  come  because 
of  the  immense  money  prizes.  ...  I'd  create  a  public 
opinion  among  future  public  men — a  school  of  statesmen. 
After  I'd  been  at  it  for  thirty  years,  all  your  civil  service 
here  and  abroad,  all  your  journalists,  your  soldiers,  your 
dons  and  school  masters,  your  parliamentary  candidates, 
your  parsons  and  labour  leaders  would  all  have  been 
through  my  mill.  Not  thirty  years,  no;  but  in  relatively 
short  time.  They  might  disagree  as  much  as  they  pleased 
with  what  they'd  been  taught,  but  they'd  never  be  able 
quite  to  shake  it  off;  it  would  be  like  Christianity  or  the 
'Wealth  of  Nations' ;  their  minds  would  be  coloured  by  my 
doctrines;  I  should  be  the  intellectual  currency  of  that 
generation,  and,  after  I'd  gone,  there'd  be  a  crop  of  books 
about  me,  a  tradition,  a  school  of  thought.  .  .  ." 


40  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Lancing  cut  into  the  frothing  peroration  with  the  first 
objection  that  he  had  found  time  to  frame  before  being 
dragged  off  his  feet  and  hurried  through  mazes  of  digres- 
sion to  new  avenues  of  thought. 

"But  if  you  haven't  got  any  particular  doctrines?"  he 
demanded  in  slow  perplexity. 

"Oh,  everyone  has." 

"Well,  I  haven't." 

Young  Stornaway  looked  at  him  incredulously  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  ran  both  hands  through  his  disordered  mop  of 
reddish-brown  hair. 

"You  couldn't  have  knocked  about  the  world,  you  couldn't 
have  made  all  your  money  without  philosophising  and  get- 
ting all  sorts  of  views  and  doctrines  together." 

"You  must  remember  I  was  taken  by  surprise,"  Lancing 
answered.  "I'd  never  thought  of  thinking  things  out  be- 
fore ;  I  haven't  had  time  since.  But  we  must  be  getting  to 
bed.  Let  me  know  when  you  finally  quarrel  with  your 
relations  and  give  up  the  Diplomatic.  If  you're  still  keen  on 
a  commercial  life,  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  an  introduction. 
My  address " 

"I  suppose  'Lancing,  America'  will  always  find  you," 
Stornaway  interrupted  with  a  smile. 

The  two  men  did  not  meet  again  for  three  years.  In 
1888  Deryk  was  born,  and  for  many  months  the  centre  of 
gravity  in  Lancing's  life  was  shifted.  He  attended  his  of- 
fice perfunctorily  and  forgot  his  momentary  questions  of 
soul  on  the  political  possibilities  of  wealth.  Until  he  rousell 
himself  to  break  the  Smelting  and  Refining  Combine,  his 
rivals  said  that  A.  L.  was  a  back-number,  wholly  sunk  in 
domesticity.  The  old  problem  remained,  each  year's  end 
saw  him  almost  intolerably  richer  than  before,  more  widely 
and  deeply  committed;  but  he  no  longer  troubled  himself 
about  the  future,  and  his  wife  no  longer  wondered  what 
kind  of  thing  they  were  to  make  of  their  life ;  whether  they 
lived  in  America  or  Europe  depended  on  Deryk.  Sitting 
on  the  nursery  floor,  watching  him  in  the  slanting  evening 
sun,  as  he  crawled  and  dragged  himself  over  the  rug  or 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  41 

stood  precariously  erect  before  toppling  into  a  pile  of  cush- 
ions, they  were  content  to  whisper  endlessly  of  the  life  that 
they  would  prepare  for  him.  He  was  to  be  educated  in 
England;  Aylmer  Lancing  still  hated  English  public  school 
education,  but  he  hated  democracy  more — he  had  found  so 
many  opportunities  of  despising  it;  they  would  make  a  new 
home  for  him  as  soon  as  his  father  could  set  his  affairs 
in  order;  and  for  an  hour  they  would  discuss  where  the 
new  home  was  to  be  and  how  Deryk  was  to  be  better  taught 
and  trained  than  any  boy  of  the  past — as  was  fitting.  .  .  . 

The  affairs  were  not  in  order  when  Raymond  Stornaway 
called  at  the  big  stone  house  on  Riverside  Drive  in  1891. 
He  was  being  transferred  to  Rio,  and  the  moment  seemed 
opportune  for  breaking  with  the  Diplomatic  Service  and 
trying  his  luck  elsewhere  before  all  initiative  had  died 
within  him.  The  Lancings  entertained  him  at  dinner  and 
picked  up  the  threads  of  discussion  where  they  had  been 
dropped  three  years  before.  Stornaway  had  grown  ma- 
turer  in  practical  judgment,  but  was  as  voluble  and  full 
of  theories  as  ever. 

"You'll  never  use  your  money  till  you're  compelled  to," 
he  told  Lancing  airily,  as  dinner  drew  to  a  close.  "But  I've 
a  theory  that  you'll  have  to  before  long.  For  one  thing, 
your  financial  interests  extend  to  pretty  well  every  country 
in  the  world :  well,  there's  bound  to  be  political  or  indus- 
trial trouble  in  one  of  them,  and  you'll  have  to  settle  it,  if 
you  don't  want  to  lose  your  money.  What  I  want  out  of 
you  at  the  moment,  though,  is  a  job.  I'm  young,  intelli- 
gent, honest  and  extraordinarily  ambitious ;  I  want  you  to 
give  me  an  opening,  and  I'll  shew  you  what  I'm  made  of." 

A  few  enquiries  and  an  introduction  gave  Stornaway  his 
chance  with  a  firm  of  contractors  in  South  America.  When 
they  met  four  years  later,  Stornaway  had  travelled  far  and 
fast  and  was  in  a  position  to  demand  a  partnership,  which 
he  got.  Lancing's  mind  was  preoccupied  with  other 
thoughts  that  season.  The  news  of  the  Jameson  Raid  had 
disturbed  two  important  markets,  and  he  had  a  feeling  that 
one  lawless  Britisher,  backed  by  a  handful  of  mine-owners 


42  MIDAS  AND  SON 

and  considerable  Jingo  approbation,  should  not  be  allowed 
to  throw  a  peaceful  industry  into  disorder  and  derange  his 
own  operations. 

"What  do  you  make  of  this  South  African  business?" 
he  asked  moodily. 

"It  was  bound  to  come,"  answered  Stornaway  without 
hesitation.  "When  a  self-centred  agricultural  community 
happens  to  sit  down  on  diamond-and-gold-yielding  soil,  I've 
a  theor}'  that  all  the  damned  rapscallions  of  the  world  will 
always  come  and  make  a  disturbance.  You  can  let  'em  into 
your  peaceful  country,  and  they'll  make  a  hell  of  it ;  or  you 
can  try  to  keep  them  out,  as  the  Dutch  have  been  doing, 
and  you'll  probably  have  your  peaceful  country  grabbed 
from  you.  You  stand  to  lose  anyway,  like  the  Mexicans 
and  Peruvians,  like  the  Indians  of  this  country,  if  you  like, 
unless  you're  strong  enough  to  repel  the  intruder." 

"But  the  British  Government  can't  conceivably  justify 
the  Raid  or  support  Jameson,"  objected  Lancing. 

Stornaway's  chubby  face  lined  itself  into  a  cynical  smile. 

"Not  now,  perhaps,"  he  conceded.  "But  the  South  Afri- 
can diamond  men  are  rich  and  not  over-scrupulous.  And 
they're  a  lot  more  enterprising  than  you.  Lancing.  They'll 
propagandise  Westminster.  You've  always  got  these  two 
irreconcilables  in  South  Africa,  and,  when  the  time's  ripe, 
there'll  be  another  disturbance,  another  raid.  'This  is  the 
second  time,'  our  Government  will  say.  'It's  getting  be- 
yond a  joke.  You  Boers  can't  run  your  own  show;  we 
must  protect  British  interests.'  Then  they'll  send  a  gunboat 
or  two  and  a  column,  the  Press  will  work  up  the  Majuba 
business  for  all  it's  worth  and  we  shall  establish  a  protec- 
torate over  the  Dutch  republics.  I  told  you  years  ago,  when 
we  first  discussed  the  subject,  that  a  rich  man  could  have 
a  war  or  a  revolution  for  the  asking." 

Lancing  brooded  over  his  young  friend's  facile  generali- 
sations. 

"Could  he  stop  it?"  he  asked  at  length.  "Even  I  know 
that  it's  easier  to  destroy  than  to  build  up." 

"If  he's  rich  enough,"  was  the  prompt  reply.     "You — I 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  43 

mean  all  the  people  with  money  can  threaten  to  refuse  a 
loan.  You  can  refuse  other  things,  too — steel,  lead,  pro- 
pellants,  explosives — I  gather  that  this  South  African  rum- 
pus is  affecting  you  ?  Well,  I  told  you  that  you'd  expanded 
so  far  that  sooner  or  later  you'd  be  sensitive  to  any  kind 
of  disturbance  in  any  part  of  the  world.  You'd  better 
study  the  raw  material  of  war  and  make  a  corner." 


Sir  Aylmer  interrupted  his  reverie  to  push  back  his  chair 
and  accept  the  support  of  Hatherly's  arm  from  the  dining- 
room  to  his  own  study.  He  had  been  waiting  for  Deryk 
to  come  back  and  could  not  imagine  where  he  had  gone ;  it 
was  not  much  to  ask  of  him  that  he  should  remain  in  the 
room  till  the  end  of  dinner  on  his  first  night  at  home ;  ap- 
parently he  had  not  changed  much  in  two  years. 

"How  is  Raymond?"  Hatherly  asked,  as  he  pulled  two 
armchairs  to  the  fire  and  arranged  a  rest  for  Sir  Aylmer's 
feet. 

"As — effervescent  as  ever,"  was  the  reply,  given  a  little 
grudgingly.  Sir  Aylmer  never  understood  how  he  came 
to  surrender  so  easily  and  often  to  Raymond's  spell ;  yet, 
after  their  two-minute  discussion  of  the  Jameson  Raid,  he 
had  set  his  mind  to  work  for  the  first  time  on  the  wider 
potentialities  of  money.  A  growing  intelligence  depart- 
ment, collected  automatically  and  of  necessity  to  watch  on 
his  behalf  what  he  had  neither  time  nor  knowledge  to  watch 
for  himself,  guided  his  hesitating  steps  beyond  the  limits  of 
pure  commerce.  Each  earlier  development  had  followed 
logically  from  the  one  before ;  he  had  built  a  railroad  to 
carry  grain,  he  had  bought  lumber  and  steel  to  build  a 
railroad.  Hitherto  he  had  not  confused  commerce  with 
politics;  that  steady  concentration  of  purpose,  indeed,  dis- 
tinguished him  from  old  Diethelm,  who  was  always  flitting 
between  Frankfurt,  Paris,  London  and  New  York,  tr}'ing 
to  consolidate  the  international  bankers  and  open  their  eyes 
to  a  realisation  of  their  own  diplomatic  powers.     (It  was 


44  MIDAS  AND  SON 

quite  impracticable,  whatever  Raymond  Stornaway  might 
say;  the  London  issue  houses  suspected  a  ruse  for  pooling 
a  profitable  business,  and  in  New  York  the  Gregory  group 
had,  as  ever,  declined  to  work  with  a  Jewish  bank.  Diet- 
helm  was  a  visionary — like  Raymond.)  Carnegie  was  win- 
ning the  visible  success  of  being  allowed  at  his  own  expense 
to  build  peace  halls  and  arbitration  courts — another  vision- 
ary. Stahl  and  Marlowe  were  believed  to  have  an  inter- 
est in  several  armament  rings,  which  was  to  get  on  nodding 
terms  with  reality;  but  Lancing  went  to  work  as  a  relaxa- 
tion and  in  a  spirit  of  experiment.  There  was  nothing 
much  in  it.  .  .  .  Even  with  the  help  of  Carnegie  and 
Gould,  Harriman  and  Rockefeller,  Astor  and  Morgan,  he 
.could  not  hope  to  buy  Woolwich,  Skoda  and  Essen,  as  he 
had  bought  the  Great  Lakes  Steamship  Company  and  the 
New  Mexico  and  Montana  Railway.  There  were  political 
obstacles  which  the  minted  wealth  of  the  world  could  not 
overcome.  If  the  works  were  to  continue,  they  must,  of 
course,  be  supplied  with  raw  material,  and,  if  a  gun  needed 
iron  ore  and  tungsten,  copper  and  nickel,  presumably  that 
gun  lay  at  the  mercy  of  the  man  who  held  the  available 
world's  supply. 

Slow  and  profoundly  sceptical.  Lancing  learned  all  that 
his  intelligence  department  could  teach  him  about  tungsten; 
he  started  with  a  virgin  mind,  not  knowing  where  or  how 
tungsten  was  obtained;  as  his  interest  quickened,  he  laid 
his  plans  for  the  monopoly  of  its  supply;  the  project  of 
interfering  with  the  armament  works  of  the  world  yielded 
place  to  a  larger  project  of  controlling  the  world's  sup- 
plies of  steel  by  establishing  a  monopoly  of  that  which  was 
necessary  to  harden  steel.  It  was  long  since  he  had  taken 
a  big  risk;  never  had  he  tried  to  concentrate  in  his  own 
hands  the  supply  of  a  single  commodity.  This  would  be 
power,  if  he  succeeded,  and  he  worked  hard,  for  Deryk 
was  now  eight,  and  they  had  decided  to  take  him  over  to 
England  the  following  year.  Throughout  the  spring  and 
summer  of.  1896  he  was  in  his  ofifice  from  seven  in  the 
morning  until  nine  at  night,  patiently   silent   in  his   rec- 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  45 

tangnlar  glass  box,  listening  without  comment  by  the  hour 
and  abruptly  making  up  his  slow-moving  mind.  Deryk  and 
his  mother  bathed  and  played  at  Atlantic  City,  when  New 
York  became  too  hot  for  them;  but  Lancing  refused  to 
follow  them  until  his  new  project  was  in  train.  When  he 
came,  it  was  to  bid  them  accompany  him  for  a  six  month's 
cruise  in  the  Pacific.  The  work  was  unfinished,  hardly 
begun,  but  he  had  been  picked  up  unconscious  from  the 
floor  of  his  private  office,  where  he  sat  ostentatiously  with 
the  door  open,  to  shew  New  York  that  he  was  accessible ; 
his  doctor  told  him  that  he  was  suffering  from  nervous 
strain.  For  a  time  the  right  side  of  his  face  was  puckered, 
and  he  could  not  speak  distinctly.  Then  his  control  re- 
turned, but  the  memory  of  the  sudden  surrender  of  brain, 
the  puckered  mouth,  the  stiffness  down  one  side  of  his  body 
frightened  him,  and  he  was  a  tractable  patient. 

At  the  end  of  the  six  months  he  returned  to  New  York 
and  reported  formally  to  the  doctor,  who  declined  to  pro- 
nounce him  fit  for  work  and  ordered  a  further  rest.  Lanc- 
ing, slowly  deciding  that  all  was  not  well  with  him,  called 
in  a  specialist  and  had  himself  re-examined.  This  time 
there  was  no  loose  talk  about  nervous  strain ;  he  was  told 
that,  in  the  sense  of  the  word  understood  in  New  York,  he 
would  never  be  able  to  work  again. 

"A,  L.  is  a  back-number,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  drove 
to  his  office ;  he  repeated  the  words  mechanically,  as  he  set 
about  furtively  destroying  a  number  of  papers  dealing  with 
undertakings  which  he  would  never  finish.  The  phrase 
had  sprung  from  a  forgotten  pocket  of  his  memory,  and 
he  used  it  dispassionately  and  without  rancour,  though  he 
could  have  wished  for  any  other  tag  to  come  and  relieve 
duty.  "I  am  going  to  take  another  holiday,  Gwen,"  he 
announced  that  night  in  the  same  even  tone,  though  he 
looked  deliberately  round  the  drawing-room  on  Riverside 
Drive  rather  than  at  his  wife,  who  would  now  see  him  only 
in  his  degradation.  "It  will  last  as  long  as  I  do,"  he  went 
on.    "The  fool  doctor  says  I  may  travel  and  pick  up  cups 


46  MIDAS  AND  SON 

and  saucers,  like  J.  P.  Morgan.     Or  I   can  sign  cheques 
for  free  libraries  half  an  hour  a  day,  if  I  promise  to  stop 

when  I'm  tired.     Or  I  can "     He  stopped  suddenly, 

and  his  voice  leapt  shrill  and  hoarse.     "Gwen,  I'm  done 
for !    They're  never  going  to  let  me  vi^ork  again ! !" 

The  next  day,  deaf  to  protests,  he  left  the  house  at  seven 
to  begin  collecting  and  tidying  the  work  of  fifteen  years 
before  leaving  America  for  ever.  Whatever  happened,  he 
must  clear  things  up  before  the  next  stroke;  Gwen  and  the 
boy  must  be  provided  for,  and  there  was  no  one  to  help 
him,  no  one  he  could  trust,  no  one  who  knew  anything 
about  the  business.  Since  the  earliest  days  he  had  worked 
alone,  because  he  could  not  tolerate  the  system  of  yielding 
to  a  majority  among  his  colleagues,  when  he  knew  them  to 
be  wrong;  alone  the  work  would  have  to  be  finished,  but 
it  was  like  punting  with  a  sprung  pole ;  the  next  thrust 
might  well  be  the  last.  Some  little  minor  help  was  forth- 
coming on  the  other  side,  and  Hatherly  was  instructed  by 
cable  to  make  ready  in  England;  Raymond  Stornaway, 
passing  through  New  York  on  his  way  to  purge  Panama 
of  fever  and,  though  he  knew  it  not,  to  leave  his  health 
behind  there,  offered  his  brother's  house  in  Sussex  for  the 
new  home.  (Raymond  always  bustled  up  with  some  fantas- 
tic project!  What  was  the  use  of  a  dilapidated  house  to 
a  man  in  his  state?  It  was  offered  as  a  plaything,  a  dis- 
traction.) The  offer  was  made  at  the  beginning  of  dinner, 
when  Lancing  was  wondering  whether  a  man  was  justified 
in  ending  this  sort  of  thing,  putting  himself  out  of  his 
misery,  as  the  phrase  went.  He  drank  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne, however,  though  his  doctor  had  warned  him  that 
action  and  reaction  were  equal  and  opposite;  gradually 
he  felt  better,  later  he  knew  that  he  was  going  to  get 
quite  well  again.  So  the  onlookers,  who  trooped  into  the 
office  to  say  good-bye,  were  shewn  an  "A.  L."  as  determined 
and  as  steady-eyed  as  ever ;  indeed,  rather  quicker  in  mak- 
ing up  his  mind  and  impatient  with  the  inevitably  slow  for- 
mation of  the  Lancing  Trust  Corporation.  He  could  make 
it  no  quicker;  he  was  working  ten  hours  a  day  for  seven 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  47 

days  a  week,  dragged  out  for  three  months  in  defiance  of 
a  labouring  heart  and  tattered  nerves.  And  it  didn't  help 
things  when  fools  came  and  told  him  how  bad  he  looked; 
as  if  he  did  not  know  it!  For  the  last  week  he  was  living 
on  dry  biscuits,  champagne,  coffee  and  cigars;  the  cor- 
poration had  to  be  launched.  And  on  the  night  when  his 
work  was  done,  he  was  carried  home  to  die.  Nothing  could 
save  a  man,  said  the  doctor,  if  he  tried  so  hard  to  kill 
himself. 

For  three  months  Lancing  lay  in  a  darkened  room,  pant- 
ing as  his  heart  raced  and  stopped,  trembling  at  distant 
sounds  and  wondering  when  the  blood,  which  surged  to  his 
head  like  a  river  in  flood,  would  burst  through  the  skull 
like  water  from  a  broken  main.  The  bone,  he  knew,  was 
thin  as  paper,  for  the  "clock-clock"  of  trotting  horses  on 
Riverside  Drive  stung  and  bruised  his  unprotected  brain. 
For  the  first  month  his  wife  was  with  him  night  and  day; 
by  gripping  her  wrist  he  could  remain  in  bed  when  the  ship 
rolled.  (Evidently  they  were  taking  him  to  England,  as 
arranged,  and  had  carried  the  house  bodily  on  board  to 
avoid  disturbing  him;  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  any  ship 
could  keep  afloat  when  it  rolled  until  he  felt  himself  falling 
perpendicularly  out  of  bed.)  After  the  first  month  she  dis- 
appeared. He  was  convinced  that  she  had  gone  overboard 
in  one  of  the  recent  heavy  seas,  and  cried  like  a  child,  with 
long,  quivering  sobs,  until  she  was  led  in  between  two 
nurses.  Then  he  cried  because  she,  too,  was  ill.  At  the 
end  of  the  second  month  he  began  to  sleep  naturally,  all 
night  and  most  of  the  day,  being  roused  for  a  few  moments 
to  have  milk  poured  into  his  mouth.  The  room  had  be- 
come steadier,  and  the  bone  was  growing  more  over  his 
naked,  pulsating  brain,  though  he  still  panted  as  though 
he  had  been  running.  Once  he  enquired,  slowly  but  clearly, 
where  his  wife  was ;  the  doctor  said  that  she  was  asleep.  A 
week  later  she  was  rather  unwell ;  as  he  gained  strength,  the 
reports  of  her  grew  graver;  only  when  he  was  strong 
enough  for  the  news,  did  he  learn  that  she  had  died  a  month 
before. 


48  MIDAS  AND  SON 

On  a  late  summer  afternoon  of  1897  Hatherly  waited  to 
recognise  and  greet  a  friend  of  his  own  age,  whom  he  had 
not  seen  for  ten  years.  He  looked  long  for  a  tall,  black- 
haired  man  of  forty-six  with  an  aquiline  nose  and  obstinate 
mouth ;  all  that  he  discovered,  led  thereto  by  an  overwrought 
boy  of  nine  in  black  clothes,  was  a  grey  and  bearded  old 
man  with  restless  eyes  and  flickering  lids,  who  had  been 
carried  down  the  gangway  by  one  set  of  men  and  was  seem- 
ingly waiting  to  be  carried  elsewhere  by  others.  Hatherly 
took  charge  and  bore  his  friend  to  a  private  nursing  home 
in  the  country,  while  he  chose  a  school  for  Deryk  and 
bought  Ripley  Court  from  the  Stornaways,  as  though  he 
were  buying  a  ready-made  coat  in  a  storm  of  rain.  Some- 
thing had  to  be  done  very  quickly  for  a  man  who  would  be 
an  invalid  for  the  rest  of  his  life ;  it  would  be  time  enough 
for  recriminations  later  on.  "Whatever  you  think  best,  per- 
per-perfectly  sat'sfied,"  was  Lancing's  unvarying  stam- 
mered comment,  as  he  sat  huddled  in  bed,  staring  out  of 
the  window  and  gently  scratching  at  the  sheet  with  long, 
claw-like  fingers.  Six  months  before  he  had  not  been  satis- 
fied with  anything  that  lacked  his  seal  and  imprimatur ;  he 
would  have  cleaned  his  own  windows,  if  he  could,  because 
others  did  the  work  less  well. 

The  sight  of  Lancing's  helplessness  drove  Hatherly  to  a 
Quixotic  act  of  sacrifice  hardly  justified  by  any  claim  of 
friendship.  He  called  his  two  partners  together  and  told 
them  that  he  proposed  to  confine  himself  in  future  to  the 
care  of  the  Lancings  and  their  estate.  For  years  Deryk 
could  expect  no  attention  from  his  father,  and  he  looked  at 
first  sight  too  highly  strung  to  be  neglected  in  any  way ;  for 
the  rest  of  his  life  Aylmer  Lancing  would  be  unequal  to  the 
single  control  of  his  own  afifairs.  "I'm  not  doing  this  for 
my  own  amusement,"  Hatherly  explained  ruefully,  already 
half  repentant,  when  his  partners  mildly  expostulated  at  the 
unexpected  break-up  of  the  firm. 

From  that  day  he  did  nothing  for  his  own  amusement, 
and  such  amusement  as  came  to  him  was  slight.  He  was 
sacrificing  himself  in  middle  life  to  a  dying  man,  whose  will 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  49 

was  never  so  masterful  as  when  he  lay  nearest  to  death. 
After  the  first  month  he  deliberately  took  stock  and  asked 
himself  whether  he  could  possibly  continue.  His  own  will 
was  being  so  steadily  checked,  disregarded  and  set  aside  that 
he  felt  the  lines  of  his  personality  becoming  blurred ;  he  was 
treated  like  a  down-trodden  wife  (as,  had  he  known  it, 
Gwendolen  Lancing  had  come  to  be  treated  within  two  years 
of  Deryk's  birth)  ;  he  was  becoming  an  obedient  shadow 
like  the  recently  engaged  male  nurse  (but  he  was  paid  to 
be  docile  and  unresentful).  Yet  what  good  did  this  stock- 
taking do?  He  could  not  abandon  the  Lancings,  if  he 
wanted  to — any  more  than  a  swimmer  could  stand  and 
watch  a  child  drowning;  you  might  not  like  spoiling  your 
clothes,  but  it  could  not  be  avoided.  .  ,  .  Sir  Aylmer  brooded 
for  months  over  his  dead  wife  and  his  own  powerlessness, 
vaguely  conscious  that  for  years  before  her  death  they  had 
drifted  apart;  not  knowing  why;  wondering  why  she  had 
become  so  inanimate ;  then  he  would  feel  a  tremor  of  de- 
ceptive strength  returning  to  his  worn-out  body,  and  for  a 
week  would  plan,  direct  and  execute  with  the  fury  of  his 
own  youth.  The  spasm  of  energy  would  pass  as  abruptly 
as  it  had  come,  and  he  would  sink  back  into  morose  inertia, 
varied  by  outbursts  of  violent  irritability. 

The  neighbouring  houses,  suspicious  of  American  mil- 
lionaires, spent  a  cautious  year  in  testing  him,  only  to  find 
that  their  lives  held  nothing  in  common,  and  that  he  was 
too  preoccupied  to  meet  them.  Hatherly  tried  to  find  him 
society  by  choosing  suitable  tenants,  but  of  all  who  came  to 
settle  on  the  estate  Colonel  Penrose,  a  widower  in  retire- 
ment from  the  Indian  Army,  was  the  only  one  who  estab- 
lished a  foothold  in  the  house.  Three  years  earlier  Pen- 
rose had  got  at  loggerheads  with  the  War  Office,  and  had 
been  told  in  effect  that,  interesting  as  were  his  views  on 
army  reform,  he  must  do  his  prescribed  work  in  the  pre- 
scribed way  or  send  in  his  papers.  Petulant  and  never 
dreaming  that  anyone  would  get  rid  of  a  man  merely  be- 
cause he  was  enlightened,  Penrose  resigned  his  commission, 
cut  short  a  career  that  he  loved,  and  returned  to  England 


50  MIDAS  AND  SON 

with  his  two  children,  to  live  narrowly  in  a  cottage  on  the 
fringe  of  the  Ripley  estate,  to  lose  odd  sums  of  money  by 
speculation  and  to  bandy  grievances  with  his  landlord.  After 
his  fever  in  Panama  and  consequent  retirement  from  busi- 
ness, Raymond  Stornaway  would  run  down  for  a  week-end, 
in  part  out  of  old  regard  and  sympathy,  in  part  to  discuss 
the  great  philanthropic  organisations  to  which  he  was  de- 
voting the  rest  of  his  life ;  of  other  society  there  was  none, 
and  Deryk  himself  was  so  highly  wrought  that  during  his 
school  holidays  he  was  deliberately  kept  away  from  the 
morbid  hush  of  the  sick-room.  Not  until  he  was  halfway 
through  his  time  at  Eton,  did  his  father  seem  to  take  cogni- 
sance of  him ;  it  was  Hatherly  who  chose  schools,  paid  bills 
and  administered  reprimands,  who  visited  him  for  all  school 
functions  and  carried  him  abroad  for  the  holidays.  The 
sight  of  the  boy,  with  his  mother's  dark  hair  and  nervous, 
quickly-dilating  eyes,  always  recalled  the  eight  years  of  mar- 
ried life  on  Riverside  Drive,  when  all  the  world  with  its 
sunshine  and  flowers  lay  before  the  Lancings  and  their  boy, 
and  when  he  had  for  some  reason  failed  to  get  the  best  out 
of  life ;  he  could  never  look  back  on  that  time  without 
breaking  into  savage  self-pity. 

When  Deryk  was  sixteen,  his  father  discovered  him. 
For  a  few  days  at  the  beginning  or  close  of  the  holidays 
they  had  met  at  Ripley  Park,  each  confusedly  regarding  the 
other  more  as  an  institution  than  as  a  blood  relation.  They 
had  never  talked  together  nor  exchanged  confidences  until 
Hatherly  raised  the  question  what  was  to  be  done  when 
Deryk  left  school.  The  question  came  with  a  shock,  and 
Aylmer  found  himself  summoning  his  thoughts  from  afar 
and  concentrating  them  on  an  absorbing  problem.  Hitherto 
he  had  ridden  the  hobbies  that  his  neighbours  suggested, 
demolishing  and  rebuilding  half  the  house,  collecting  black- 
figure  pottery,  laying  out  the  gardens  afresh,  even  start- 
ing a  racing  stable.  His  interests  were  now  focussed  on 
his  family,  as  they  had  been  once  before  when  he  and  his 
wife  dreamed  and  made  plans  for  their  boy.  It  seemed 
that  Deryk  had  been  at  a  public  school  for  two  and  a  half 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  51 

years;  that  he  was  a  scholar  of  promise,  more  than  a  year 
younger  than  any  boy  in  his  division;  that  he  could  look 
forward  to  an  academic  career  of  distinction ;  that,  so  far  as 
an  outsider  could  judge,  he  had  achieved  a  certain  popu- 
larity. From  a  supplementary  account  of  their  holidays  on 
the  continent,  it  appeared  that  he  could  speak  fluent  French 
and  German,  and  was  at  home  with  Italian  and  Spanish.  He 
was  credited  further  with  great  musical  talent,  but  of  this 
Hatherly  was  not  in  a  position  to  judge. 

As  Lancing  wheeled  himself  about  the  house  or  drove  into 
the  neighbouring  forest  or  onto  the  Downs  for  his  daily 
exercise,  life  seemed  less  empty,  and  the  routine  of  food, 
work,  recreation  and  rest  a  shade  less  wearisome.  He  had 
handed  on  to  his  son  the  seeds  of  his  own  vigour  and  apti- 
tude before  they  were  paralysed;  there  was  a  possibility 
of  living  again  in  his  son's  body.  Thereafter  Deryk  had 
to  spend  rather  more  of  his  holidays  at  home,  and  his  father 
talked,  a  little  nervously,  about  the  future,  and  let  fall  anec- 
dotes about  the  past.  The  boy  certainly  did  not  pass  mus- 
ter in  his  present  shape;  he  looked  delicate  and  neurotic, 
he  was  absorbed  in  a  world  of  pictures,  books  and  music, 
from  which  he  could  only  be  roused  with  difficulty  to  in- 
terest himself  in  the  material  life  of  living  men  and  women, 
and,  when  the  house  filled,  as  it  inevitably  did,  with  a 
heterogeneous  gathering  of  men  and  women  who  were 
leaving  a  mark  on  the  administration  and  politics  of  their 
> country,  he  had  a  habit  of  shutting  him.self  up  in  the  library 
and  neglecting  not  only  his  father's  guests  but  his  own 
opportunities. 

Hatherly  looked  on  with  misgiving  and  a  pang  of  some- 
thing that  he  would  not  admit  was  jealousy;  it  was  but 
natural  that  Aylmer  Lancing  should  become  absorbed  in  his 
r  own  son,  that  he  should  seek  to  mould  and  direct  him,  but 
he  was  enjoying  the  fruit  of  others'  work  without  consult- 
ing them  or  being  guided  by  their  opinions  and  experience. 
Now,  if  there  were  one  thing  more  clear  than  another,  it 
was  that  Deryk  ought  not  to  spend  much  time  at  Ripley 
Court,  where  the  only  youthful  society  was  provided  by 


52  MIDAS  AND  SON 

little  Idina  Penrose,  who  was  his  confidante,  slave  and 
hero-worshipper ;  he  ought  not  to  hve  in  that  silent,  deserted 
house  with  that  pack  of  old  men.  Had  not  Forsyte,  the 
local  doctor,  described  him  as  "an  old  man's  child"?  He 
was  highly  strung,  and  there  was  every  likelihood  of  his 
brain's  exhausting  his  body  and  nerves.  Sir  Aylmer  seemed 
to  regard  the  great  house  as  an  empty  frame  and  Deryk  as 
a  canvas  that  had  to  be  covered  with  a  suitable  picture; 
he  would  not  let  him  develop  naturally.  .  .  .  From  Eton  the 
boy  passed  to  Magdalen  and  in  four  years  won  two  firsts 
and  a  university  prize.  He  was  in  the  running  for  a  fel- 
lowship, but  his  father  intervened  arbitrarily  with  a  wider 
ambition.  Hatherly  found  difficulty  in  curbing  his  impa- 
tience. .  .  . 

"It  is  not  my  idea  that  you  should  bury  yourself  in  Ox- 
ford," Lancing  told  his  son  at  the  end  of  a  silent  dinner 
on  the  night  after  the  class  lists  had  been  published.  "With 
the  money  that  I  can  put  at  your  back " 

"What's  the  good  of  money,  if  I  can't  do  what  I  want?" 
Deryk  interrupted  impatiently.  "I  haven't  got  to  earn  my 
own  living,  so  why  can't  I  lead  the  kind  of  life  I  want  to  ?" 

"Money  carries  responsibilities,  Deryk.  You  can't  just 
put  your  feet  up  and  read  a  book." 

"I  don't  propose  to.  I  propose  to  work,  but  it's  work  of 
the  kind  that  appeals  to  me.  I've  been  at  it  for  a  year  or 
two ;  they  say  up  there  that  I  shall  do  it  well ;  why  can't  I 
go  on  with  it?" 

"You're  only  twenty-three,"  said  Sir  Aylmer.  "You've 
seen  very  little  of  the  world " 

"I  don't  want  to  see  the  beastly  world." 

"We  shall  not  do  any  good  by  discussing  this  further." 

Since  first  he  went  to  school,  fifteen  years  earlier,  Deryk 
had  been  broken  to  the  habit  of  obedience;  the  habit  had 
never  been  strained,  for  his  wants  were  simple  and  had 
generally  been  gratified. 

"I  am  proposing  that  you  should  go  round  the  world  .  .  . ," 
continued  Lancing,  leaning  back  with  his  bony  hands  on 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  53 

the  arms  of  his  chair,  like  a  patriarch  giving  judgment. 
Deryk  looked  despairingly  at  Hatherly,  but  no  support  was 
forthcoming;  Hatherly  had  deserted  him. 

"I  want  to  try  for  this  fellowship,"  he  objected,  rather 
breathlessly. 

"It  will  be  time  enough  to  consider  what  you  really  want 
to  do,  when  you  come  back." 

"It'll  be  too  late  then." 

"You  are  of  age,  Deryk,"  said  Lancing,  in  conclusion, 
"but  as  long  as  you  live  here  I  shall  expect  my  wishes  to 
be  consulted." 

For  two  days  the  boy  carried  about  a  scowling  face  and 
a  tragic  manner;  on  the  third  he  capitulated,  after  a  talk 
in  which  Hatherly  came  like  an  unsuccessful  ambassador  to 
explain  that,  so  long  as  Aylmer  Lancing  controlled  the 
finances  of  the  house,  opposition  was  impracticable.  "You 
haven't  got  the  fellowship  yet,  but,  if  you  had,  I  take  it 
that  you  wouldn't  want  to  break  with  your  father  and  try 
to  live  on  it.  You've  got  to  give  in,  so  you  may  as  well 
do  it  with  a  good  grace."  A  month  later  the  travellers  set 
out,  and,  before  the  boat  reached  Alexandria,  he  had  for- 
gotten his  wild  charges  of  injustice  and  tyranny  in  the  rap- 
ture of  entering  new  worlds;  their  time-table  was  thrown 
into  disorder  at  the  outset,  and  from  Bombay  he  cabled 
home  for  leave  to  extend  their  programme.  His  father 
smiled  a  little  wearily  and  cabled  back  his  approval ;  he  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  think  this  thing  out,  and  it  would  save 
so  much  time  and  acrimony  if  other  people  would  think  a 
little  more  instead  of  hastily  opposing  him  and  afterwards 
admitting  that  he  was  right.  No  one  ever  knew  how  much 
he  grudged  the  extra  year's  absence,  nor  how  hard  he  found 
it  to  insist  on  Deryk's  going;  but  the  boy  had  to  be  taught 
by  his  own  observation  and  experience  what  would  be  ex- 
pected of  his  position;  he  must  see  wherein  he  was  dif- 
ferent from  his  fellows.  No  doubt  it  was  very  interesting 
to  pore  over  his  books  and  establish  where  a  caravan  route 
had  run  three  hundred  years  before  Christ,  but  that  sort  of 
thing  led  nowhere  at  all,  it  could  not  be  combined  with  the 


54  MIDAS  AND  SON 

social  and  political  power  which  his  money  would  give 
him ;  when  Deryk  was  less  of  a  precocious  schoolboy,  he 
would  not  want  to  combine  it.  .  ,  . 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  began  to  strike  eleven,  and 
Sir  Aylmer's  shaggy,  grey  eyebrows  met  in  a  straight, 
frowning  bar;  it  was  intolerable  that  after  two  years'  pol- 
ishing Deryk  should  be  the  same  heedless,  undisciplined, 
self-centred,  mannerless  hobbledehoy. 

"Ring  tliat  bell,  Ted,"  he  ordered  peremptorily.  "I  will 
know  where  Deryk's  got  to." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  now  that  you've 
got  him  home  ?"  Hatherly  asked  lazily,  as  he  walked  to  the 
fireplace.  Sir  Aylmer's  tone  suggested  that  sharp  words 
were  going  to  be  exchanged. 

"You  asked  me  that  at  dinner,"  was  the  curt  reply.  "It 
depends  on  what  sort  of  man  you've  made  of  him." 

"Oh,  I've  done  nothing.  There  was  no  need.  You  see, 
he  doesn't  drink,  doesn't  gamble — he's  too  fastidious  to  have 
any  vices " 

"No  entanglements?"  asked  Sir  Aylmer.  His  voice  was 
even,  but  the  watchful,  deep-set  eyes  were  curious. 

"He's  entirely  uninterested  in  women,  except  to  idealise 
them  from  a  distance." 

"That  by  itself  won't  save  a  man,"  said  Sir  Aylmer  drily. 

"Well,  he  gave  me  no  trouble  of  any  kind." 

Sir  Aylmer  sat  in  reflective  silence  for  a  moment. 

"I  suppose  it  wasn't  generally  known  who  he  was,"  he 
suggested  at  length,  as  though  pursuing  his  own  line  of 
thought. 


When  his  father's  summons  at  length  reached  him,  Deryk 
left  the  library  and  bounded  through  the  west  corridor  and 
hall  in  shirt  sleeves,  with  his  hands  and  arms  overflowing 
with  little  boxes  and  a  tangle  of  lace  and  silk.  He  took  an 
active  pleasure  in  slamming  a  door  or  two  and  whistling  as 
he  ran ;  the  silence  of  the  house  was  a  thing  to  be  resisted. 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  55 

"I've  been  unpacking,"  he  explained  in  answer  to  Sir 
Aylmer's  look  of  enquiry. 

"Talbot  would  have  done  that,"  said  his  father  shortly, 
though  his  expression  of  sternness  relaxed  at  sight  of  his 
lithe,  handsome  son.     "It's  part  of  his  work." 

Deryk  wriggled  his  shoulder-blades  impatiently. 

"I  can't  stand  a  crowd  of  footmen  fussing  round  me!" 
he  exclaimed.  "I'm  half  afraid  to  blow  my  own  nose  in 
this  house.  Besides,  he'd  have  smashed  everything.  Look 
here,  dad,  you  said  at  dinner  that  you'd  got  a  mob  of  peo- 
ple coming  here  ;  I've  been  selecting  suitable  presents.  When 
are  they  due,  and  who's  coming?" 

"To-morrow,"  answered  Sir  Aylmer.  "By  the  way, 
Deryk,  you'll  remember  not  to  go  about  in  shirt  sleeves, 
when  they're  here?    It's  rather  a  weakness  of  yours." 

"I'll  behave  like  a  perfect  gentleman,"  sighed  Deryk,  with 
humorous  resignation.     "Who's  coming?" 

"Several  people.  Raymond  and  his  niece ;  George  and 
Beryl  Oakleigh — I  don't  think  you  know  them ;  Sum.mer- 
town  and  his  sister ;  one  of  the  Dainton  boys  and  his  sister — 
a  good  many  of  your  friends,  and  a  few  of  mine — I  can't 
give  them  you  out  of  my  head.  The  night  after  next  I've 
arranged  for  a  little  dance  and  invited  the  people  round 
about  here;  to-morrow  we  shall  just  have  a  quiet  dinner 
to  ourselves,  no  one  from  outside." 

Deryk  nodded  without  any  great  show  of  interest.  Yo- 
lande  Stornaway  was  an  old  ally,  and  her  name  alone  was 
welcome. 

"Is  Dina  Penrose  coming?"  he  asked.  "I've  chosen  her 
rather  a  jolly  necklace." 

"I'm  not  having  anyone  from  outside  to-morrow,"  his 
father  repeated.  "The  hounds  are  meeting  here  on  the 
morning  of  the  dance — Pebbleridge  rang  up  to  ask  if  it 
would  amuse  you ;  the  fixture  was  for  Bishop's  Cross  itself, 
but  I  hear  that's  under  water;  those  are  the  only  arrange- 
ments I've  made.  I  thought  we  might  talk  things  over  be- 
fore anyone  comes.     Before  that,  though,  I  want  to  know 


S6  MIDAS  AND  SON 

what  you  are  thinking  of  doing  with  yourself  now  you're 
home." 

Deryk  stretched  out  his  foot  and  pulled  a  small  table 
to  the  side  of  his  chair.  On  this  he  carefully  set  out  the 
boxes  and  trinkets  which  he  had  been  carrying,  tossed  the 
lace  onto  the  floor,  and  got  up  in  search  of  a  cigarette.  He 
knew  that  the  question  must  come,  but  he  was  in  no  hurry 
to  answer  it ;  and  he  hated  the  theatrical  setting — return  of 
heir  from  abroad,  conseil  de  famille,  the  choice  of  a  career, 
family  solicitor  in  attendance — "a  serious  moment  in  your 
life,  my  dear  boy." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  doing  anything  in  particular,"  he 
said  at  length,  throwing  his  head  back  and  watching  through 
half-closed  eyes  the  wavering  spirals  of  smoke.  "I've  got 
my  books  here  and  I  can  work  at  them.  It's  too  late  to  go 
back  to  Oxford,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  could  settle  down 
there  now  after  wandering  about  so  much."  He  looked  at 
his  father,  a  little  embarrassed  by  his  silence  and  intimi- 
dated, as  always,  by  these  stiff,  unsympathetic  encounters 
in  which  he  was  ever  outnumbered.  "I  want  to  start  again 
where  I  left  off  two  years  ago — there's  a  tremendous  lot  to 
be  done ;  I  should  work  here  part  of  the  time  and  part  of 
the  time  in  London,  I  should  have  to  go  abroad  a  good  bit. 

As  I  say,  there's  a  tremendous  lot  to  do,  and,  er "    He 

hesitated  on  finding  that  he  was  repeating  himself,  "Well, 
that  was  my  scheme.  It's  just  a  question  whether  you  care 
to  find  the  money." 

Sir  Aylmer  sat  for  several  moments  in  a  thoughtful  si- 
lence, stroking  his  chin  between  thumb  and  first  finger. 

"You've  never  considered  a  more — public  career?"  he 
asked  at  length.  "Parliament?"  Deryk  grimaced  in  dis- 
favour. "The  Diplomatic?  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  later 
on  that  you've  buried  your  talents." 

Deryk  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  club  fender. 

"Any  talents  I've  got  are  purely  academic,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  take  the  least  interest  in  this  House  of  Commons 
racket,  and  I  shouldn't  be  the  least  good  at  it.    As  for  the 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  57 

Diplomatic — my  dear  dad,  I  happened  to  know  one  or  two 
forsaken  brutes  marooned  in  our  different  embassies.  Noth- 
ing like  good  enough." 

Sir  Aylmer  said  nothing,  and  his  fingers  began  to  toy 
with  the  trinkets  on  the  table.  Rejoicing  to  break  up  the 
family  council  so  quickly,  Deryk  jumped  up,  pushed  Hath- 
erly's  chair  round,  so  that  he  could  see,  and  prepared  to  ex- 
plain. There  were  conventional  ivory  elephants,  large  and 
small,  moonstone  brooches  and  necklaces,  filigree  balls  and 
ebony  boxes,  brass  pots  from  Benares  and  trays  from  Mo- 
rocco— an  impetuous,  youthful  and  undiscriminating  col- 
lection. 

"I've  got  a  Buddha  for  you  in  the  library,"  he  told  his 
father.  "And  one  of  my  only  two  tiger  skins  for  Hats. 
Genuine  old  mantilla,  guaranteed  to  pass  through  a  wedding 
ring;  Yolande  Stornaway  can  have  that.  I  want  to  see 
Yolande  again,  .  .  .  Rich  blue  silk  kimono,  as  worn  by  all 
the  best  people  in  Formosa,  that's  for  Sally  Farwell;  you 
said  she  was  coming,  didn't  you?  A  few  hundred  yards 
of  Teneriffe  lace — not  yet  allocated.  A  sumptuously  em- 
broidered  " 

"This  is  a  beautiful  thing,  Der}'k,"  interrupted  Sir  Ayl- 
mer. 

The  boy  threw  aside  a  crimson  silk  tea-gown  and  looked 
at  the  case  which  his  father  was  holding.  Circling  three 
times  round  the  velvet  boss  lay  a  pearl  necklace  of  ex- 
quisite harmony  and  colour. 

"Isn't  he  a  ripper?"  cried  Deryk,  his  eyes  shining  with 
pleasure.  "I  got  him  in  Paris  for  Dina  Penrose ;  I  wanted 
to  give  her  something  decent." 

Sir  Aylmer  raised  his  eyebrows  and  looked  wonderingly 
at  his  son. 

"My  dear  boy !  you  mustn't  go  giving  expensive  presents 
of  jewelry  in  this  way!"  he  exclaimed. 

"We  can  afford  it,"  Deryk  answered  easily. 

"That's  not  tlie  point.  You  must  know  that  a  girl  of  her 
age  can't  accept  pearls  from  a  man  of  your  age.  I've  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing." 


58  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Deryk  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"She'll  take  it  from  me  all  right,"  he  predicted.  "We've 
always  been  brought  up  in  each  other's  pockets " 

Sir  Aylraer  drummed  impatiently  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"But  surely  I  wrote  and  told  you " 

"About  the  smash  ?    I  know.    Well,  I  don't  suppose  she's 
got  anyone  to  give  her  things  now.     I — I  wish  somethings 
could  be  done  for  her,  dad." 

"Something  has  been  done,"  answered  Sir  Aylmer  im- 
patiently. "She's  living  rent  free  at  Ivy  Cottage,  I've  made 
myself  responsible  for  the  boy's  education,  and  I've  found 
her  a  position  as  companion  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  there 
she  must  work  out  her  own  salvation.  Please  stick  to  one 
thing  at  a  time.  If  she  were  my  daughter,  and  you  gave 
her  this  necklace,  I  should  forbid  her  to  accept  it ;  so  would 
her  father,  if  he  were  still  alive;  so  would  any  father.  To 
you  it  may  seem  all  very  foolish  and  conventional,  but  the 
world's  prejudices  have  to  be  respected." 

Deryk's  lips  parted  for  an  impatient  rejoinder,  but  Hath- 
erly  caught  his  eye  and  frowned  warningly. 

"I'm  blest  if  I  can  see  what  all  the  fuss  is  about,"  the 
boy  grumbled  with  only  a  partially  successful  attempt  at 
good-humour.  "It's  your  money,  though,  and  if  you  say 
I'm  not  to " 

Sir  Aylmer  interrupted  with  a  loftily  tolerant  gesture 
of  the  hand. 

"I  don't  want  there  to  be  any  question  of  my  saying  what 
you  may  or  may  not  do,  Deryk.  I  can  assure  you  that  it 
wouldn't  be  considered  good  form  for  you  to  give  such  a 
present,  and  I  know  that  after  that  you  won't  waste  an- 
other thought  on  the  thing.  Going  back  to  the  other  ques- 
tion, my  father  sent  me  into  a  profession  for  which  I  had 
no  taste  or  aptitude ;  I  don't  want  to  repeat  that  mistake 
with  you,  but,  whatever  else  you  may  do,  you'll  have  to  give 
considerable  time  to  mastering  the  first  principles  of  busi- 
ness.    You're  going  to  inherit  a  great  deal  of  money " 

Deryk's  attention  had  wandered,  and  he  was  playing  with 


SI  VIEILLESSE  SAVAIT  ...  59 

a  cavalcade  of  ivory  elephants.  At  his  father's  last  words, 
however,  he  looked  up. 

"How  much  are  you  worth,  dad?"  he  enquired. 

Sir  Aylmer  looked  at  him  and  then  looked  away  at  the 
fire ;  as  the  silence  lengthened,  Deryk's  eyes  met  Hatherly's, 
and  the  two  waited  with  conscious  expectancy. 

"How  much  do  you  think?"  Sir  Aylmer  said  at  length. 
"Please  stop  fidgeting  with  those  elephants." 

Deryk  flushed  at  the  reproach,  and  dug  his  hands  into 
his  pockets. 

"I've  honestly  no  idea,"  he  said.     "A  million?" 

This  time  his  father  hardly  hesitated  at  all ;  his  mind  was 
made  up,  and  his  eyes,  with  a  question  in  them,  turned  for 
confirmation  to  Hatherly,  who  answered  with  a  quick  nod. 

"More  than  that,  Deryk ;  my  annual  income  is  over  a 
million." 

Deryk  whistled,  and  sat  staring  at  his  father  with  wide- 
eyed  astonishment. 

"But  how  the  deuce  d'you  manage  to  get  rid  of  it?"  he 
demanded. 

"That  is  a  question  which  you'll  have  to  answer  in  your 
time,"  Sir  Aylmer  replied,  as  he  looked  at  the  clock  and 
motioned  to  Hatherly  for  help  in  getting  out  of  his  chair. 


CHAPTER  II 
what's  bred  in  the  bone 

The  old  believe  everything;  the  middle-aged  suspect  everything; 
the  young  knovvr  everything. 

Oscar  Wilde  :  Phrases  and  Philosophies  f orthe  Use  of  the  Young. 


On  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  the  house-party 
began  to  assemble.  Deryk  felt  that  the  whole  thing  was 
rather  unnecessary,  and  would  probably  be  very  boring  at 
a  time  when  he  wanted  to  be  busy  tidying  his  books  and 
seeing  what  had  happened  to  all  his  possessions  in  the  last 
two  years.  There  was  a  pomposity,  too,  about  his  father 
at  such  times  which  was  rather  exasperating,  far  too  much 
fuss  and  nonsense  about  "the  return  of  the  young  heir"  and 
the  young  heir's  general  deportment.  But  it  was  something 
to  fill  the  great  barrack  of  a  house,  and  he  had  not  come 
across  any  of  these  people  for  years.  He  entered  into  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  servants,  who  were  making  such  prepara- 
tions as  Ripley  Court  had  not  seen  since  it  changed  hands, 
for  the  coming-of-age  celebrations  four  years  earlier  had — 
perhaps  mercifully — been  cut  short  by  one  of  Sir  Aylmer's 
sudden  attacks  of  illness.  He  flitted  from  room  to  room, 
asking  questions  and  pouring  out  suggestions ;  only  at  rare 
intervals  did  his  mind  revert  to  his  father's  conversation 
overnight.  At  tea-time  he  M^as  discovered  on  the  stairs, 
working  out  rough  calculations  on  the  back  of  an  envelope. 

"You'll  change  out  of  those  clothes  before  anyone  comes, 
won't  you,  Deryk?"  said  Sir  Aylmer,  with  a  look  of  dis- 
favour at  a  shapeless  Norfolk  jacket  and  flannel  trousers. 
"What  are  you  doing  there?" 

Deryk  smothered  a  sigh  and  wrote  down  the  last  line  of 
figures. 

60 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  6i 

"It's  what  you  said  last  night,"  he  answered.  "A  million 
a  year ;  divide  by  fifty ;  that's  roughly  £20,000  a  week.  Divide 
by  seven ;  say  £3,000  a  day.  Twenty-four  hours  in  a  day ; 
that's  roughly  £120  an  hour.  Two  pounds  a  minute !"  He 
looked  up  from  the  paper,  and  his  eyes  dilated  in  bewil- 
derment. "Had  you  ever  worked  it  out  like  that,  dad? 
Two  pounds  a  minute — a  fiver  while  we've  been  talking — 
night  and  day,  summer  and  winter!" 

Sir  Aylmer  leaned  over  the  side  of  his  wheeled  chair  and 
took  the  paper. 

"It's  rather  more  than  that,"  he  said  with  the  detach- 
ment of  accuracy.  "I  said  a  million,  to  put  it  in  round 
figures,  but  it  was  well  over  that  the  last  time  I  took  stock, 
nearly  two  years  ago,  at  the  time  that  I  built  the  new  wing 
for  the  Crawleigh  hospital." 

"When  they  made  you  a  Bart?"  Deryk  asked.  "Why 
didn't  you  stick  out  for  a  peerage  ?" 

Sir  Aylmer  frowned  and  made  no  answer.  He  had  no 
desire  for  a  peerage,  and  had  not  welcomed  the  baronetcy. 
It  was  too  much  and  too  little.  If  these  honours  meant 
anything,  they  should  not  be  given  to  any  rich  man  who 
spared  a  fraction  of  his  wealth  for  charity;  if  they  meant 
nothing,  he  would  sooner  be  without  them.  He  had  a  posi- 
tion of  his  own,  which  he  had  made  for  himself ;  he  did  not 
choose  to  be  tolerated  in  company  with  half  a  dozen  com- 
pany promoters  and  Rand  mine-owners  like  Sir  Adolf  Erck- 
mann  of  Priory  Court.  He  was  not  going  to  buy  himself 
into  a  society  which  thought  itself  too  good  for  him ;  either 
England  had  a  place  for  him  in  its  social  scale,  or  it  had 
not ;  he  was  not  going  to  out-bid  Erckmann  in  surrounding 
himself  with  the  more  venal  section  of  the  impoverished 
nobility.  On  the  whole,  the  English  aristocracy  and  he  were 
both  too  good  for  that.  In  the  early  days  he  had  been 
tempted  to  tell  Sir  Roger  Dainton  or  Lord  Pebbleridge  that 
their  social  influence  was  a  small  thing  to  a  man  who  had 
broken  the  Smelting  and  Refining  Combine,  that  Lord  Peb- 
bleridge's  scattered  80,000  acres  bulked  small  beside  the  con- 
trol of  transportation  in  eleven  states.    A  trifling  change  in 


62  MIDAS  AND  SON 

the  freight  tariff  of  the  IlHnois-Iowa-Colorado  Raih'oad 
would  enable  com  to  be  grown  at  a  profit  on  the  Bishop's 
Cross  estate.  ...  As  for  Dainton — Sir  Aylmer  sometimes 
smiled  as  he  drove  far  and  wide  through  Sussex  and  Hamp- 
shire, idly  counting  the  public  houses  consecrated  "entirely" 
to  Dainton's  Melton  ales ;  he  could  cripple  Sir  Roger  and 
reduce  Lady  Dainton's  self-esteem  by  inflating  the  price  of 
glucose ;  it  would  be  a  costly  lesson  to  administer,  but  he 
could  afford  it,  while  Dainton  could  not.  Even  his  neigh- 
bour Dawson,  an  unpretentious  bachelor  dyspeptic,  made  a 
favour  of  recommending  his  name  to  the  Lord  Lieutenant 
for  the  Commission  of  the  Peace — they  had  to  be  so  careful 
in  the  Home  Counties ;  Lancing  half  thought  of  describing 
the  part  that  he  had  played,  for  purposes  of  his  own,  in 
getting  Cleveland  returned  for  the  Presidency.  But  they 
would  not  understand ;  certainly  they  would  not  believe  him. 
"Things,"  he  had  often  been  told,  "must  be  so  different  out 
in  America." 

"Why  didn't  you  stick  out  for  a  peerage?"  Deryk  per- 
sisted, his  face  flushed  with  the  crude  possibilities  of  the 
newly-discovered  power. 

"Why  on  earth  should  I?"  his  father  demanded  shortly. 
"I  can't  attend  the  House  of  Lords." 

"My  hat!     I  wish  I'd  known  about  it  before!" 

Sir  Aylmer  wheeled  himself  slowly  back  to  his  study. 
Deryk  was  talking  like  a  schoolboy;  it  was  a  pity  to  have 
told  him  so  soon. 

"Don't  be  late,"  he  threw  back  over  his  shoulder. 

Deryk  looked  at  his  watch  and  strolled  away  to  the  li- 
brary. If  his  father  had  spared  him  that  reminder,  he 
would  have  gone  upstairs  and  changed  his  clothes  at  once, 
but  he  would  not  tolerate  being  ordered  about;  there  was 
plenty  of  time,  and  he  would  not  greatly  care  if  he  were 
late.  The  library  was  in  calamitous  confusion.  .  .  .  He 
stood  in  a  deep  bay,  reading  the  titles  of  the  books  that  sur- 
rounded him  on  three  sides ;  it  was  here  that  he  had  gath- 
ered the  material  for  what  he  once  hoped  would  be  the  work 
of  years,  perhaps  the  study  of  a  lifetime.     In  certain  re- 


WJIAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  6^ 

spects  the  Greeks  of  Pericles'  day  had  raised  civilisation  to 
its  high-water  mark,  and  hitherto  no  one  had  worthily  writ- 
ten their  social  history.  He  wanted  to  know  more  of  their 
daily  life  than  the  books  gave  him — what  the  slaves  did  in 
the  evening,  whether  they  had  a  sort  of  workingmen's  club 
to  go  to — recognised  meeting  places.  He  wanted  to  know 
how  they  lived,  how  they  dressed — it  could  be  very  hot  and 
very  cold  in  Athens — where  they  got  their  imported  clothes 
from,  how  they  got  them,  how  they  did  their  chartering, 
whether  you  definitely  had  a  corner  down  at  the  Piraeus 
where  people  bid  against  each  other  for  freight,  how  far 
they  understood  insurance  and  dealt  in  that — human  re- 
quirements were  always  so  similar  and  so  unchanging,  when 
you  came  to  read  history ;  you  had  a  labour  problem  now, 
they  had  a  slave  problem  then,  a  feminist  movement  now,  a 
feminist  movement  then ;  and,  if  you  wanted  warm  clothes 
and  didn't  grow  furry  animals  yourselves,  you  had  to  build 
ships,  put  them  into  the  fur  trade,  insure  them — which 
brought  him  back  to  his  point,  that  you  might  be  certain, 
even  without  your  Demosthenes  to  back  the  hypothesis,  that 
the  Piraeus  did  have  its  own  primitive  Lloyds,  that  they  had 
their  insurance  brokers  and  underwriters,  .  .  .  He  had 
wanted  so  desperately  to  spend  his  whole  time  on  that,  re- 
constructing the  social  life  of  Athens  until  he  had  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  ordinary  Greek's  mental  equipment.  If 
you  took  him  and  planted  him  down  in  equatorial  Africa, 
you  could  be  sure  that  he  would  have  a  house  built  on  cer- 
tain lines,  domestic  habits,  times,  procedure  of  a  certain 
kind,  the  average  educated  Englishman's  house  and  life 
generally,  in  short.  You  would  know  he  was  English  by 
the  breakfast  that  people  on  the  plantation  had  to  eat. 
Everyone  knew  that  a  Roman's  mental  equipment  was 
equally  well-marked — that  he  didn't  feel  comfortable  in  a 
new  country  until  he'd  revolutionised  the  water  supply,  got 
down  his  tesselated  pavement,  deposited  a  piece  of  Rome 
in  Scythia  or  Gaul  or  Egypt,  forced  his  habits  and  his  per- 
sonality on  the  natives.  You  could  see  him  later  building 
an   arena,   as   the    Spaniards   built   bull    rings   in    Central 


64  MIDAS  AND  SON 

America  and  as  the  English  laid  out  golf  links  in  Nigeria. 
Well,  later  on  he  wanted  to  know  the  habits,  the  daily  life, 
the  domestic  entourage  of  the  average  Greek  who  would  be 
left  behind  to  settle  in  Asia  Minor  after  Alexander's  death. 
He  wanted  to  know  what  house  he  always  built,  what  la- 
bour arrangement  he  always  made,  what  his  average  re- 
lations were  with  the  people  that  Alexander  had  just  con- 
quered, he  wanted  to  know  the  precise  stamp  that  a  time- 
expired  soldier  of  Alexander  left  on  his  surroundings 
wherever  he  was  planted,  just  as  historians  knew  to  some 
extent  the  kind  of  stamp  that  a  Roman  legionary  left  on  his 
surroundings.  And,  when  he  had  done  that,  when  he  had 
exhausted  every  source  of  information  on  the  influence  of 
Greek  civilisation  upon  the  world  of  those  days,  he  wanted 
to  find  out  how  and  why  it  was  influenced  in  turn :  how 
far  tlie  Greek  in  Syria  or  Egypt  forgot  his  common  par- 
entage and  assimilated  himself  to  the  Syrian  or  the  Egyp- 
tian, why  the  descendant  of  Pericles  became  the  degenerate 
three-card-trick  sharp  that  you  found  him  under  the  early 
Emperors,  or  as  the  chroniclers  of  the  time  affected  to  find 
him.  He  wanted  to  describe  the  decline  and  fall  of  Greek 
civilisation.  .  .  .  Der}^k  stopped  suddenly,  as  a  horn 
sounded  far  away  down  the  drive.  He  had  been  dreaming, 
as  he  used  to  dream  at  Oxford,  of  a  people  and  a  country 
that  he  loved  as  a  man  might  love  a  woman,  a  people  that 
he  wanted  to  bring  back  to  life,  giving  the  whole  of  himself 
to  the  work.  .  .  .  And  now  other  people  with  golf  clubs 
and  suit  cases  were  coming  to  slap  him  on  the  back.  .  .  . 
And  he  was  not  even  going  to  be  ready  in  time  to  receive 
them! 

He  hurried  to  his  room  by  a  side  staircase,  pulling  off 
coat  and  waistcoat  by  the  way.  The  one  good  thing  about 
this  desolating  party  came  quite  inadvertently ;  it  had  been 
improvised  so  suddenly  that  old  and  new  invitations  were 
clashing,  applicants  for  charity  would  be  rubbing  shoulders 
with  the  painstakingly  selected  young  women  who  were  al- 
ways being  paraded  for  his  delectation  and  choice,  and 
among  the  applicants  for  charity  was  Dr.  Manisty,  the  well- 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  65 

known  Hellenist,  who  now  came  to  Sir  Aylmer  because 
after  twenty  years'  work  he  could  go  on  no  longer  with- 
out assistance.  Deryk  decided  to  make  Manisty's  acquaint- 
ance as  soon  as  possible  and  to  use  his  influence  and  rep- 
resentations to  escape  from  this  nonsensical  social  business 
and  get  back  to  work.  It  was  so  curious  that  his  father 
seemed  lukewarm,  when  a  few  hundreds  a  year  were  all 
that  was  needed.  .  .  . 

The  hall  was  beginning  to  fill  by  the  time  that  he  had 
changed  and  hurried  downstairs.  Raymond  Stornaway, 
plump,  untidy  and  prematurely  white-haired,  was  standing 
in  front  of  the  fire,  drinking  tea  and  talking  with  charac- 
teristic violence  of  diction  to  a  delicate-looking  young  man 
with  rimless  glasses,  a  stoop  and  an  expression  of  disil- 
lusionment (Deryk  afterwards  discovered  him  to  be  George 
Oakleigh,  the  Radical  propagandist,  descending  upon  Rip- 
ley Court  in  search  of  funds).  Gerald  Deganway,  of  the 
Foreign  Office,  and  Jack  Summertown,  with  whom  he  had 
shared  digs  at  Oxford,  were  drinking  whisky  and  soda  at 
a  side  table  with  Valentine  Arden,  the  novelist;  they  hailed 
him  vociferously  as  he  ran  down  the  stairs,  three  at  a  time, 
and  surged  round  him  with  welcoming  hands  and  eager 
questions.  For  ten  minutes  there  had  been  so  much  chatter 
and  bustle,  the  ring  of  so  many  cups  and  the  scrape  of  so 
many  matches  that  Sir  Aylmer  had  had  himself  wheeled 
back  to  his  study  and  was  receiving  his  guests  one  at  a 
time.  Deryk  threaded  his  way  in  and  out  of  the  little 
groups  by  fire  or  table,  shaking  hands  with  everybody  once 
and  occasionally  more  than  once,  to  be  on  the  side  of 
safety.  It  was  unnecessary  to  know  their  names,  and  his 
share  of  the  conversation  seemed  restricted  to  "Very  well 
indeed,  thanks.  Only  last  night.  Oh,  a  great  time,  thanks. 
Honestly  I've  no  idea ;  haven't  had  much  time  to  think 
about  it,  have  I?"  This  last  was  in  answer  to  the  inva- 
riable question  what  he  proposed  to  do  with  himself  now 
that  he  was  back  in  England.  Once,  twice,  twelve  times 
he  could  stand.  .  .  . 

"Cheero !    Deryk !    I'm  jolly  glad  to  see  you  again !" 


66  MIDAS  AND  SON 

A  slight,  demurely  mischievous  girl  with  a  pale  face  and 
auburn  hair  darted  from  the  shadows  by  the  front  door  and 
caught  him  by  both  hands. 

"Cheero,  Yolande,"  he  answered.  "Promise  not  to  ask 
which  part  of  my  most  interesting  travels  I  enjoyed  most, 
and  I  won't  ask  how  you  or  your  people  are.  The  question 
Degins  to  pall." 

"So  did  my  people,"  Yolande  Stornaway  answered  with 
laughing  eyes.  "You  know  I've  run  away  from  home? 
Oh  yes.  There  was  a  frightful  row;  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
it  some  time,  but  now  I  want  you  to  meet  my  particular 
friend  Dr.  Manisty.  Uncle  Raymond's  brought  him  down 
to  squeeze  endowments  out  of  your  poor  father;  /  call  it 
an  abuse  of  hospitality,  but  you  know  what  darling  uncle  is. 
Come  and  say  'How  do  you  do?'  to  the  pretty  gentle- 
man." 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his  and  dragged  him  away 
to  a  spectacled  and  absent-minded  scholar  who  was  spilling 
tea  with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  inverting  his  saucer 
to  inspect  the  marks  on  the  china.  By  19 13  and  in  despite 
of  criticism  by  the  learned  and  disparagement  by  the  rich, 
Felix  Manisty  had  excavated  more  of  Silver  Greece  than 
any  ten  other  men  of  the  century ;  he  had  discovered  the 
site  of  Hellenopolis  in  Asia  Minor,  when  earnest  young 
German  students  wTote  theses  to  prove  that  no  such  city 
existed  and,  alternatively,  that  he  had  not  discovered  it; 
with  his  unaided  hands  he  had  laid  bare  the  posts  of  the 
Lion  Gate  and  traced  the  course  of  the  Street  of  Bridges 
at  a  time  when  Morrison-Grahame  of  Edinburgh  and  Paw- 
ley  of  King's,  abandoning  minor  controversies,  were  jointly 
protesting  in  print  that  a  city  built  by  one  of  Alexander's 
generals  was  too  late  for  their  period  and,  by  implication, 
not  worth  excavating.  It  was  twelve  years'  work,  however, 
and  Manisty  had  turned  forty.  For  six  months  of  the  year, 
when  Hellenopolis  lay  in  the  grip  of  malaria,  he  lectured, 
exhibited,  catalogued  and  wrote ;  it  was  in  the  office  of  the 
"Utopia  Review"  that  he  had  chanced  upon  Yolande  Storn- 
away, flushed  with  enfranchisement  from  her  family  and 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  67 

important  with  the  first,  fine,  careless  rapture  of  free-lance 
journalism;  she  had  instantly  introduced  him  to  Raymond 
on  the  Terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons  with  the  words, 
"Uncle  dear,  will  you  make  one  of  your  magics?  If  you 
don't  catch  one  of  your  rich  friends  for  Dr.  Manisty,  we 
shall  never  dig  up  Hellenopolis." 

"That,  my  dear,  would  be  very  serious,"  answered  Ray- 
mond.   "Who  or  what  is  Hellenopolis  ?" 

Thereupon  a  normally  silent  man  with  a  high  forehead, 
gentle  grey  eyes  and  a  shy  stammer  had  eloquently  demon- 
strated the  relative  positions  of  the  Lion  Gate  and  the  Street 
of  Bridges  with  the  aid  of  an  unrolled  umbrella  with  two 
broken  ribs,  a  discoloured  straw  hat,  two  pairs  of  spectacles 
and  a  silver  watch  lacking  the  minute  hand.  Raymond 
looked  on  apprehensively  as  the  mild-mannered  enthusiast 
divested  himself  of  an  obviously  ready-made  coat  and 
spread  it  on  the  Terrace  to  mark  the  Black  Mountain;  ap- 
prehension ripened  to  alarm,  when  the  waistcoat  followed 
the  coat  and  a  knot  of  curious  onlookers  gathered  to  listen. 
When,  however,  Yolande  asked  for  a  promise  of  help  and 
an  opinion  of  her  new  friend,  Raymond  replied  from  the 
heart  that  Manisty  possessed  some  of  the  worst  clothes  and 
best  manners  in  the  world  and  that  his  zeal  should  be  re- 
warded. The  visit  to  Ripley  Court,  planned  before  the  date 
of  Deryk's  return  was  known,  followed  automatically. 

"If  you're  touching  the  gov'nor  for  money,  sir,"  said 
Deryk,  as  they  shook  hands,  "the  least  you  can  do  is  to 
ask  me  to  come  out  with  you  the  next  time  you  go  digging." 

"L-look  at  me  and  be  warned,"  Manist}^  answered. 

Yolande  glanced  quickly  from  the  one  to  the  other  and 
decided  that  she  could  leave  them  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves. They  talked  until  the  last  keys  had  been  surren- 
dered and  the  dressing  gong  was  beginning  to  sound;  and 
their  conversation  was  continued  briefly  when  Manisty  ap- 
peared at  Deryk's  door  in  shirt  sleeves,  holding  two  crum- 
pled dress  ties  in  his  hands  and  stammering  in  mild  indig- 
nation. 

"How   the   d'deuce    does    one   manage    these   abomina- 


68  MIDAS  AND  SON 

tions?"  he  demanded  plaintively.  "I  sp-pecially  told  the 
m-man  in  the  shop  to  give  me  ready-made  ones.  B-by  the 
way,  how  do  you  c-come  to  have  heard  about  Hellenopolis  ?" 

"Well,  when  you  came  to  lecture  at  Oxford "  Deryk 

began. 

"Now,  don't  t-tell  me  you  attended  those !"  said  Manisty, 
facing  his  companion  squarely.  "Great  God,  that  makes 
five !  The  Vice-Chancellor  and  the  Regius  Professor 
c-came  out  of  politeness;  there  was  a  B-Balliol  man,  who 
attended  all  university  lectures  on  principle,  because  they 
were  all  the  same  and  all  wrong;  and  there  was  an  obsti- 
nate old  w-widow  from  North  Oxford,  who  insisted  that 
I  was  t-talking  about  the  Synoptic  Gospels  and  t-told  her 
friends  that  I  was  too  long  getting  to  the  p-point  to  be  a 
g-good  lecturer.  So  you  were  there,  too ;  wha-what  a  thing 
is  youth !" 

"Are  you  going  to  take  me  with  you?"  Deryk  demanded 
again.  "I — I've  got  a  little  job  of  my  own;  I  don't  say  we 
shall  overlap,  but  it'll  be  frightfully  good  training  for  me. 
I  think  you  might!" 

"P-put  it  to  your  father,  my  dear  fellow.  I  should  have 
thought,  as  he's  only  just  g-got  you  home.  .  .  ." 

"He  won't  mind,"  Deryk  prophesied  easily. 

When  dinner  began,  he  found  himself  at  the  foot  of  the 
long  table  between  Beryl  Oakleigh  and  Yolande  Storn- 
away. On  the  far  side  of  them  sat  Lord  Summertown  and 
Valentine  Arden,  and  the  party  grew  graver  and  older  as 
it  approached  the  high-backed  chair  in  which  Sir  Aylmer 
sat  with  his  head  drooping  forward  and  his  hands  on  the 
carved  arms.  The  pink-shaded  lamps  softened  the  eyes  and 
rounded  the  features  of  the  women;  the  black  coats  of  the 
men  melted  into  the  surrounding  darkness,  and  to  Deryk 
it  was  as  though  the  room  held  nothing  but  white  shirt 
fronts,  light  dresses,  smooth  faces  and  sleek  heads  col- 
lected and  bent  over  gleaming  plate;  a  lingering  scent  of 
carnations  rose  and  spread  from  the  heavy  cut-glass  bowls, 
and  behind  the  chairs,  too  deft  and  silent  to  interrupt  the 
murmur  of  a  dozen  conversations,  shirt  fronts,  blue  liveries, 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  69 

immobile  faces  and  legless  bodies  moved  backwards  and 
forwards  between  the  table  and  the  shadowland  by  the 
long  wall.  With  an  actuality  never  before  felt,  Deryk 
suddenly  appreciated  that  the  garniture  of  the  room,  living 
and  dead,  would  one  day  be  his,  with  the  power  to  issue  his 
own  invitations  and  surround  himself  with  his  own  guests. 
They  would  come  at  his  bidding,  as  they  came  now;  the 
potent  two  pounds  a  minute  would  bring  Sally  Farwell, 
who  had  been  standing  in  the  social  slave-market,  rather 
young  and  wistful,  when  he  went  abroad;  and  her  aunt,  the 
old  Duchess  of  Ross,  who  always  tried  to  interest  Sir  Ayl- 
mer  in  politics ;  and  Yolande ;  and  all  the  others. 

The  pride  of  power  gave  place  to  a  feeling  of  short- 
lived cynicism.  Ripley  Court  always  seemed  to  contain 
three  or  four  pretty  girls,  eligibility  stamped  and  tooled  on 
their  well-connected  names  and  prefixes;  they  were  gra- 
cious and  friendly,  but  Deryk  wondered  how  much  sin- 
cerity there  was  in  it  all,  how  long  their  favour  would 
survive  the  sudden  collapse  of  the  Lancing  Trust  Corpora- 
tion. He  half  wished  that  his  father  had  never  mentioned 
the  amount  of  his  income ;  then  he  laughed  at  himself  for 
taking  himself  so  seriously. 

Yolande  Stornaway  turned  to  him  a  clear-cut,  boyish,  pale 
profile,  surmounted  with  auburn  hair  parted  over  one  eye 
and  sweeping  low  over  the  opposite  ear. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me,  old  man?"  she  began.  'T  sup- 
pose everybody's  asked  you  about  your  travels,  so  I  won't. 
But  I  want  to  know  what  you're  going  to  do  now." 

"I  have  touched  upon  tJiat  subject,"  Der)4^  interrupted 
diffidently. 

"You're  as  easily  bored  as  ever,"  she  commented. 
"Deryk,  d'you  ever  contemplate  what  you'll  be  like  at  forty  ? 
But  you'll  have  cut  your  throat  in  sheer  ennui  before  then. 
I  wish  your  father'd  lose  his  money  or  something." 

Deryk  sighed  extravagantly. 

"You're  rather  vindictive,  you  know,"  he  commented. 

"I've  always  been  rather  fond  of  you,  so  I  don't  want  to 
see  you  wasting  yourself." 


170  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Deryk  found  the  positive  young  face  and  assured,  staccato 
manner  diverting.  No  one  ever  knew  what  Yolande  would 
say  or  do  next  for  she  was  entirely  honest  with  herself  and 
frank  with  others ;  also  she  seemed  to  be  without  physical 
or  moral  fear.  For  three  years  she  had  dutifully  struggled 
through  the  London  season  from  April  to  July  with  two 
elder  sisters  and  a  conventional,  dispirited  mother;  from 
August  to  October  she  had  moved  restlessly  from  house  to 
house;  from  November  till  February  she  had  hunted  in 
Wiltshire.  Then  Lord  Stornaway  would  punctually  carry 
his  family  to  Cannes,  and  there  she  remained  until  Easter 
and  the  coming  shadows  of  a  new  season.  At  worst,  she 
reasoned,  the  programme  would  be  repeated  until  the  invi- 
tations ceased  to  come ;  at  best  she  would  marry  and  spend 
five  and  twenty  years  bearing  and  rearing  a  family,  to  shep- 
herd it  in  her  own  middle  life  through  the  social  wilderness 
from  which  she  was  trying  to  escape.  And  then  she  would 
be  an  old  woman.  And  then  she  would  cease  to  be  anything 
at  all.  It  was  not  good  enough,  she  told  herself ;  the  time 
had  come  for  her  to  follow  the  Stornaway  tradition  of  quar- 
relling with  the  rest  of  the  family.  Already  she  had  been 
mixing  in  a  suspect  and  undesirable  world  of  art,  letters 
and  reprehensible  politics.  At  nineteen  she  was  buying 
Fabian  Society  publications  and  devouring  them  in  bed, 
to  argue  later  with  her  father's  friends,  who  smiled  and 
patted  her  hand  kindly,  and  with  her  father,  who  wondered 
in  exasperation  where  she  had  been  stuffing  her  head  with 
all  this  nonsense.  The  Fabian  Society  led  to  a  distant  and 
temporarily  exciting  acquaintance  with  a  number  of  au- 
thors and  journalists;  she  heard  Gilbert  Chesterton  and 
Bernard  Shaw  debating  publicly.  George  Oakleigh,  bored 
but  tolerant  of  others'  enthusiasms,  took  her  to  dinners  of 
the  Ragamuffins'  Club  and  promised  to  read  any  articles 
that  she  cared  to  submit  to  "Peace."  Valentine  Arden, 
whose  face  she  had  slapped  in  circumstances  which  neither 
revealed,  introduced  her  magnanimously  to  the  editor  of 
the  "Utopia  Review." 

On  her  twenty-first  birthday  the  long  prepared  attack 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  71 

was  launched,  and,  inimitably  rich  with  three  hundred 
pounds  a  year  of  her  own,  she  moved  into  two  rooms  at 
the  top  of  Stafford's  Inn,  threw  herself  on  the  indulgence 
of  her  uncle  Raymond  and  wrote  a  rather  breathlessly  de- 
fiant letter  to  her  father,  who  with  Stornaway  choleric 
decision  forbade  her  ever  to  enter  his  house  again.  Ray- 
mond thereupon  engaged  her  a  middle-aged  housekeeper 
and  motored  to  Wiltshire  and  back  in  a  day  for  the  pleasure 
of  telHng  his  brother  not  to  make  a  fool  of  himself.  A 
guarded  reconciliation  was  effected  as  soon  as  Lord  Storn- 
away's ruffled  plumage  had  been  smoothed,  and  for  a  year 
Yolande  had  been  infinitely  busy  and  deliriously  happy, 
dashing  off  rather  juvenile  articles  and  sketches  and  feeling, 
as  she  ingenuously  boasted,  that  she  was  meeting  the  men 
and  women  who  did  things. 

"That's  my  career.  Now,  are  you  going  to  sit  and 
moulder  like  all  these  ?"  she  demanded  of  Deryk,  waving  a 
slender,  disrespectful  arm  to  indicate  in  the  dark  hinter- 
land of  the  room  the  looming  gilt  frames  in  which  his  an- 
cestors were  imprisoned. 

Deryk  looked  down  the  long  table  to  the  high,  carved 
chair  where  his  father  sat  silent  and  almost  motionless. 

"What  would  you  do  in  my  place  ?"  he  asked  quietly, 

"Do?    I'd "     She  stopped  to  laugh.    "I  don't  know, 

Deryk.  Perhaps  I  haven't  been  quite  fair  to  you ;  you  are 
so  horribly  rich  and  you're  the  only  one.  But  you  did  so 
well  at  Oxford  that  I  should  simply  hate  to  see  you  vege- 
tating here." 

"I  want  to  go  out  with  your  friend  Manisty  his  next 
trip,"  said  Deryk ;  "I'm  going  to  get  leave  from  the  guv'nor 
to-night." 

Yolande'*  grey  eyes  brightened,  and  she  nodded  approv- 
ingly. 

"Well,  that's  good  enough.  Thafs  not  mouldering.  But 
I  always  feel  that  we're  so  frightfully  tied  up  by  what's 
gone  before — our  houses,  traditions,  what  some  musty  old 
idiot  laid  down  as  the  life  we  ought  to  lead." 

Deryk  nodded   without   speaking.     Behind   his    father's 


72  MIDAS  AND  SON 

silence  he  could  not  help  thinking  that  ambitions  were  be- 
ginning to  form  for  the  heir  of  the  Lancing  Trust  Corpora- 
tion to  fulfil. 

That  night,  when  the  women  were  gone  to  their  rooms 
and  the  men  had  gathered  for  a  last  drink,  he  slipped  away 
from  the  smoking-room  and  sought  out  his  father.  Sir 
Aylmer  was  being  undressed  and  helped  into  bed,  and, 
when  Benson  withdrew,  Der}'k  repeated  the  substance  of 
his  conversation  with  Manisty.  Sir  Aylmer  sat  with  closed 
eyes,  offering  neither  criticism  nor  suggestion  until  Deryk 
had  done.  Then  he  opened  his  eyes  wearily  for  a  moment 
and  sank  lower  into  the  bed, 

"We'll  discuss  this  later,"  he  said.  "It's  too  much  to  be 
decided  offhand." 

Deryk  curbed  his  impatience  and  spoke  with  ingratiating 
reasonableness, 

"I  only  want  your  formal  consent,"  he  explained,  "so 
that  I  can  tell  Manisty," 

"You'll  want  money.  And  there  are  a  great  many  other 
considerations," 

"Well,  now  that  I've  come  home,  I  imagine  that  you'll 
settle  something  on  me,"  Deryk  said.  "I'm  twenty-five,  you 
know.  Summertown  told  me  that  was  what  his  father  did, 
when  he  came  of  age.     Most  people  do  it,  I  fancy." 

Sir  Aylmer  panted  a  little,  as  he  raised  himself  on  the 
pillows. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  should  quote  Summertown,"  he  sug- 
gested slowly.  "Do  you  feel  you  know  much  about  the 
value  of  money?" 

"I  suppose  one  has  to  find  out,"  Deryk  answered  a  little 
impatiently.    The  change  of  tone  was  not  lost  on  his  father. 

"We'll  discuss  this  later,"  he  said,  stretching  out  a  wasted, 
sallow  arm  to  the  electric  switch.  "Good-night,  my  boy. 
See  that  you're  down  in  good  time  for  breakfast." 


Deryk  lay  late  in  bed  the  following  day  to  remind  his 
father  that  he   was   twenty-five  and  did  not   care  to  be 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  73 

ordered  down  to  breakfast  in  good  time  or  told  not  to  wan- 
der about  in  shirt  sleeves  when  the  house  was  full  of  guests. 
At  the  last  moment,  however,  he  recalled  that  there  was  a 
substantial  request  waiting  to  be  met;  for  once  his  father 
must  be  humoured,  and  he  hurried  down,  presided  over 
breakfast  with  eminent  address,  arranged  for  a  car  to  take 
four  of  his  guests  to  the  Pemberton  links  and  found  undis- 
turbed rooms  and  writing-tables  for  those  who  had  work 
to  do. 

Shortly  before  eleven  the  members  of  the  Pebbleridge 
Hunt  began  to  arrive,  and  he  walked  out  to  the  lawn  and 
dispensed  hospitality  to  them.  For  half  an  hour  a  stream 
of  clear-eyed,  rather  hard-faced  men  and  women  trotted 
up  the  winding  drive  between  the  rhododendrons  and  as- 
sembled in  front  of  the  long  tables.  Amid  a  volley  of  greet- 
ings and  badinage  suggestive  of  a  nervous  endurance  and 
physical  well-being  unknown  to  him,  the  women  bent  down 
and  helped  themselves  to  sandwiches  and  cherry  brandy, 
while  the  men  dismounted  and  gave  more  serious  attention 
to  the  solid  promise  of  the  tables.  Sir  Aylmer  sat  at  his 
study  window ;  under  his  eye  and  supplementing  the  activi- 
ties of  the  footmen,  Deryk  wandered  in  and  out  with  a  box 
of  cigars  in  his  hand,  ducking  under  the  heads  of  the 
horses  or  timorously  avoiding  their  heels.  Unknown  friends 
of  his  father  shook  his  hand  and  said  that  they  were  glad 
to  see  him  home;  a  chorus  of  penetrating  voices  flung 
questions  from  four  sides  at  once  about  his  travels ;  and  all 
asked  what  he  was  going  to  do  now  that  he  was  back  in 
England. 

"By  a  designed  and  appropriate  coincidence,  the  hounds 
always  meet  at  my  place  when  I'm  not  in  Ireland,"  drawled 
George  Oakleigh  sympathetically,  when  Deryk  returned  to 
the  house  for  a  fresh  box  of  cigars. 

"This  has  been  laid  on  for  my  benefit !"  Der}'k  whispered 
in  despair.  "I  never  suspected  the  guv'nor  of  so  much 
humour  before.  God!  how  I  hate  the  country  and  all  its 
works !  Oh !  thank  the  Lord !  here's  Pebbleridge !  Now 
we  shall  get  rid  of  them." 


74  MIDAS  AND  SON 

A  purple-faced  man,  almost  bursting  out  of  his  coat, 
rode  in  front  of  a  black,  white  and  tan  wake  into  the  middle 
of  the  lawn,  shortly  acknowledging  the  greetings  of  his 
friends  with  a  jerk  of  two  fingers  to  his  cap  and  blasphem- 
ing freely  at  a  girl  whose  restive  mare  had  cannoned  into 
him.  Catching  sight  of  Deryk,  he  shook  hands  and  ac- 
cepted a  cigar,  hoping  gruffly  that  he  had  enjoyed  himself 
abroad. 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do  with  yourself  now?"  he  en- 
quired, throwing  away  one  match  and  striking  another. 
"Comin'  out  with  us  ?" 

"We've  all  been  asking  him  that,"  said  the  Secretary. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  Deryk  answered  for  what  seemed 
the  fortieth  time. 

"You'd  better.  Give  you  good  sport."  The  restive  mare 
bumped  him  again,  and  he  turned  to  the  embarrassed  rider 
with  elaborate  sarcasm. 

"In  case  you  don't  know,  madam,  I  bring  my  hounds 
here  to  be  ridden  over — there's  one  your  brute  hasn't  kicked 
yet — and  I  come  here  myself  so  that  people  who  haven't 
learned  to  ride  can  steady  'emselves  by  cannonin'  me. 
Huntin'  's  a  secondary  consideration."  He  turned  to  the 
Secretary,  as  the  mare  quieted  down  and  trotted  away  into 
safety.  "If  that  beauty  comes  out  again,  Charles,  I  take 
hounds  home.  Now  then,  get  a  move  on ;  we're  late  as 
usual.     Good-bye,  Lancing;  thank  your  father  for  me." 

Deryk  stood  on  the  steps,  watching  the  cavalcade  ride  off, 
followed  by  an  indeterminate  tweed-coated  army  of  cyclists 
and  the  entire  child-population  of  Aston  Ripley.  As  the 
jodelling  voice  of  the  huntsman  grew  fainter,  he  turned 
with  a  whimsical  smile  to  Oakleigh. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you're  not  a  sportsman,"  he  remarked. 

"You  can  shoot  and  remain  civilised,  I  think,"  Oakleigh 
ansvv^ered,  looking  critically  at  his  companion's  slight  figure 
and  large,  restless  eyes. 

"I  don't  shoot,  either.  In  fact,  I've  not  the  least  idea 
what  either  of  us  is  doing  here !" 

He  laughed  nervously,  looked  at  his  watch  and  ran  up- 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  75 

stairs  to  his  bedroom.  There  was  time  for  a  call  on  his 
friend  Idina  Penrose,  and,  after  a  longing  glance  at  the 
controversial  pearl  necklace,  he  stuffed  his  coat  pockets 
with  a  lace  scarf  and  a  medley  of  amethysts  and  moon- 
stones. Ivy  Cottage,  a  late  seventeenth  century  house,  with 
small,  oak-panelled  rooms,  open  fireplaces,  black  beamed 
ceilings  and  squat  bow  windows,  lay  but  half  a  mile  away 
on  the  northern  fringe  of  the  park.  Sir  Aylmer  had  put  it 
in  repair  and  connected  it  with  Ripley  Court  by  telephone 
for  the  use  of  his  secretary,  but,  when  Colonel  Penrose 
came  to  him  on  Hatherly's  introduction  twelve  years  before, 
he  consented  to  let  the  house  at  a  nominal  rent,  and  at 
the  Colonel's  death  it  had  remained  with  his  children.  Sir 
Aylmer  never  knew  that  Hatherly  had  contrived  to  give 
him  a  congenial  neighbour,  or  the  two  men,  widowers 
both  and  both  disappointed,  might  not  have  drawn  so  in- 
stinctively together.  Deryk  and  Idina,  with  only  four 
years'  difference  of  age,  shared  the  same  music  master, 
and  the  Colonel,  behind  the  pretext  of  bringing  and  fetch- 
ing away  his  daughter,  grasped  an  opportunity  of  smoking 
a  succession  of  pipes  with  a  good  listener.  The  Indian 
Army  provided  him  with  an  ample  subject  of  discussion; 
and  the  two  men  were  the  better  friends  when  each  ad- 
mitted that  he  had  contemplated  suicide  in  the  shipwreck  of 
his  life.  "I  had  the  children,"  Penrose  explained  with  a 
shrug.  Characteristically,  Sir  Aylmer  cut  his  own  con- 
fession short.  The  one  subject  which  made  Penrose  un- 
communicative was,  ironically  enough,  also  the  one  on 
which  Lancing  was  best  qualified  to  advise  him.  Recognis- 
ing that  on  his  narrow  means  he  could  not  give  his  children 
the  education  to  which  he  felt  they  were  entitled,  Penrose 
unceasingly  sought  means  of  increasing  his  income.  Once 
or  twice  he  tried  to  secure  pupils  for  Sandhurst,  but  the 
wide-rippling  gossip  of  the  Army  had  fixed  on  him  as  a 
wrong-headed  fellow  who  had  been  compelled  to  send  in 
his  papers.  The  orthodox  Press  rejected  his  unorthodox 
contributions,  and,  when  he  tried  to  get  out  to  South 
Africa  as  a  war  correspondent,  he  found  that  this  trade  had 


76  MIDAS  AND  SON 

to  be  learned  as  well  as  another  and  that  younger  men  had 
worked  their  way  before  him  into  the  trust  of  their  syndi- 
cates. Failing  in  the  quarters  where  his  experience  might 
have  helped  him,  he  embarked  timidly  and  a  trifle  shame- 
facedly on  small  financial  speculations.  Attractive  circu- 
lars from  brokers  who  were  not  members  of  the  Stock 
Exchange,  alluring  brochures  on  "How  to  Double  Your 
Income"  led  him  to  dribble  away  small  sums  which  mounted 
up  to  an  appreciable  total :  on  his  periodical  visits  to  London 
a  friend  at  his  club  would  work  through  the  official  list  and 
stare  wonderingly  at  industrial  stocks  which  paid  twelve 
and  fifteen  per  cent.  Penrose  interested  himself,  a  hun- 
dred pounds  at  a  time,  in  non-refillable  beer  bottles,  grama- 
phones  and  cheap  cameras,  a  method  of  illumination  which 
was  to  supersede  electric  Hght  and  a  land-development 
syndicate  on  the  east  coast.  On  the  one  occasion  when 
he  sought  advice,  his  broker  remarked  a  little  wearily, 

"You  wouldn't  trust  me  to  lead  a  battalion  into  action  by 
the  light  of  nature.  Why  trust  yourself  to  win  against 
people  who  make  this  sort  of  thing  their  business?" 

"Investments  are  everybody's  business,"  Penrose  re- 
joined. "Of  course,  you've  a  trade  union,  and,  if  you  don't 
feel  enterprising  enough  to  try  new  fields,  you  boycott  a 
thing  and  won't  let  anyone  else  try  it." 

In  a  spirit  of  enterprise,  virgin  and  unwrung,  he  invested 
heavily  in  the  New  London  General  Insurance  Corporation, 
selling  the  last  of  his  humdrum  gilt-edged  securities  to  do 
so.  He  was  in  good  company,  for  the  largest  shareholders 
were  two  judges  of  the  High  Court;  there  was  a  tolerable 
list  of  King's  Counsel,  fashionable  doctors  and  clergymen, 
and,  among  the  small  denominations,  a  countless  number 
of  lodginghouse  keepers,  widows  and  the  •proprietors  of 
small  shops  and  businesses,  chiefly  in  Scotland ;  all  men 
and  women  resolved  to  extract  the  last  penny  of  interest 
consonant  with  safety,  all  equally  opposed  by  policy  and 
principle  to  gambling.  The  directors,  no  less  enterprising 
than  the  shareholders,  gave  the  public  what  the  public 
wanted;  the  end  of  insurance  was  to  underwrite  risks,  and, 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  77 

if  one  office  refused  them,  another  must  come  forward.  In 
the  first  year  of  its  Hfe  the  Corporation  was  guaranteeing 
dividends  to  sea-side  hotels  and  laying  odds  on  the  weather 
for  Ascot  and  Goodwood ;  and  in  the  sunny  springtime  be- 
tween sowing  and  harvest  Colonel  Penrose  became  pos- 
sessed of  a  considerable  number  of  ordinary^  £10  shares 
with  a  call  of  £g  on  each.  For  a  while  the  Corporation 
prospered  on  paper,  but  with  the  failure  of  the  old  Anglo- 
Hibernian,  whose  risks  it  had  largely  underwritten,  the 
average  began  to  adjust  itself.  Penrose,  with  a  thousand 
others,  learned  that  he  was  likely  to  lose  his  holding  in  the 
New  London  and  to  sacrifice  most  of  his  outside  interests 
as  well.  Lord  Justice  Bromleigh  presided,  with  a  grey 
face,  over  a  bemused  meeting  at  the  Cannon  Street  Hotel : 
he  stood  to  lose  £90,000  by  the  full  call.  "At  least  he's  got 
a  fat  pension,"  muttered  the  Colonel,  as  he  walked  into  the 
street  and  stood,  jostled  by  the  passers-by,  wondering  where 
next  to  go. 

The  decision  was  quickly  taken  out  of  his  hands.  An 
attack  of  influenza  carried  him  off  the  same  winter:  "No 
stamina,  no  resistance :  didn't  try  to  get  round,"  his  doctor 
told  Sir  Aylmer.  Idina  and  the  boy  were  left  with  the 
£2,000  for  which  his  life  had  been  insured  and  the  vague 
sympathy  of  a  few  rather  remote  friends.  A  receiver  was 
appointed  shortly  before  Deryk  left  England.  He  learned 
by  fitful  flashes  of  news  that  a  Board  of  Trade  enquiry 
had  been  instituted,  that  the  directors  were  being  prose- 
cuted; he  had  heard  two  days  before  that  Idina  had  gone  to 
his  father  for  help.  .  .  . 

Ivy  Cottage  was  empty,  as  he  scrambled  down  the  last 
piece  of  sloping  ground  and  parted  his  way  through  the 
dripping  rhododendron  plantation  in  front  of  the  tiny  bare 
garden.  Inside,  however,  he  found  a  feeble  fire  burning 
and  a  table  laid  with  cold  meat  and  bread.  Evidently  Idina 
lunched  at  home,  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait 
until  she  returned.  He  sat  down  at  the  piano  with  a 
subtile  satisfaction  in  playing  truant,  only  to  rise  again 
impatiently,  when  he  found  that  it  was  out  of  tune.    Then 


78  MIDAS  AND  SON 

he  stared  out  of  the  window  for  a  while  and  finally  began 
to  search  the  house  for  a  book  or  paper;  in  his  ramble  he 
became  disagreeably  conscious  of  a  certain  threadbare 
economy  in  the  rooms;  there  was  less  furniture  than  for- 
merly, the  ornaments  seemed  to  have  been  tidied  away  to 
save  dusting,  and  the  gallant  efforts  of  the  fire  still  left  the 
house  dank  and  cold.  In  one  window-seat  was  a  type-writer 
and  a  copybook  half  filled  with  the  shorthand  exercises  of 
a  faint-hearted  beginner.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Deryk  came  into  indirect  contact  with  economy  enforced. 
The  experience  was  but  partially  digested,  when  he  saw 
a  figure  in  black  coat  and  skirt  walking  with  a  man  from 
the  direction  of  Aston  Ripley.  He  withdrew  from  the 
front  door  and  gravely  began  to  fulfill  the  unfailing  ritual 
which  he  had  observed  every  time  that  he  came  home  to 
Ripley  Court  for  the  holidays,  hastily  emptying  his  pockets 
of  the  little  parcels  and  boxes,  piling  them  by  her  plate  and 
tiptoeing  to  the  angle  of  the  stairs,  where,  by  kneeling  down 
and  peering  through  the  spiral  carved  rails,  he  could  watch 
to  see  her  untying  the  string.  Under  her  broad  black  hat 
it  was  difficult  from  above  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  face, 
but  he  watched  her  enter  the  house,  take  off  her  coat,  glance 
at  the  mound  of  parcels  and  replace  them  after  a  cursory 
inspection.  Then  she  knelt  down  to  warm  her  hands  at  the 
fire;  still  kneeling,  she  drew  off  her  gloves,  removed  the 
pins  from  her  hat  and  sighed  with  contentment,  as  she  drew 
up  an  armchair.  Two  years  before,  he  remembered  Idina  to 
have  been  a  slight,  under-developed  girl  of  nineteen,  the 
unsentimental  companion  and  willing  slave  of  his  holidays; 
without  feeling  older  himself,  he  was  conscious  that  she 
was  transformed  into  a  woman ;  the  lines  of  her  figure 
were  more  mature,  her  face  had  lost  the  heavy  roundness  of 
childhood,  indeed,  their  old  friendship  was  in  some  way 
outgrown,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  embarrassed,  as  he 
had  never  been  before,  to  find  himself  alone  and  so  close 
to  her.  The  firelight  flickered  warmly  on  her  cloud  of  fair 
hair  and  rather  frightened  blue  eyes ;  her  outstretched  fin- 
gers shone  opalesque,  until  she  wearily  covered  her  eyes 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  79 

with  them ;  then  Deryk  saw  her  head  droop  and  her  shoul- 
ders move  with  a  suppressed  sob.  Careless  whether  he 
frightened  her  or  not,  he  crept  from  his  hiding-place,  whis- 
pering "Dina"  and  then  more  loudly  "Dee-eena,"  until  at 
last  she  heard  him  and  turned  with  a  start  to  the  dark- 
ened corner  of  the  stairs. 

"Dina,  it's  me,  Deryk,"  he  whispered,  drawing  himself 
upright.  "I've  been  waiting  to  give  you  a  present.  Dearest 
child,  what  were  you  crying  about  ?" 

She  jumped  up  with  a  little  gasp  of  delight  and  ran  to 
meet  him. 

"Oh,  Deryk !    You've  come  at  last !" 

The  hunger  in  her  voice  sent  a  responsive  thrill  through 
him,  and  he  flung  one  arm  about  her  slight  shoulders,  draw- 
ing her  to  him  until  her  tear-wet  cheek  pressed  against  the 
rough  tweed  of  his  coat. 

"What  were  you  crying  about,  silly  baby?"  he  repeated. 

She  drew  one  hand  across  her  eyes  and  looked  bravely 
up  at  him. 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  she  said.  "Turn  to  the  light,  Deryk 
dear;  I  want  to  see  what  you  look  like  after  all  this  time." 

He  loosened  his  hold  on  her  and  turned  slowly  round  in 
the  light  of  the  window. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  away,"  he  reminded  her  reproachfully.' 

The  girl's  pale  face  lost  its  short-lived  smile,  and  she 
dropped  her  eyes. 

"I  couldn't  have  written  a  decent  letter,  if  I'd  tried.  .  .  . 
I  did  try  to  write,"  she  said,  "but  it  wasn't  fit  to  send  you. 
I  missed  you,  though — dear  Deryk,  you'll  never  know  how 
I  missed  you !" 

He  caught  her  hand  and  held  it  between  his  own. 

"I  hope  things  are  straightening  themselves  out  a  bit," 
he  said  with  husky,  unpractised  sympathy.  "What  are  you 
doing  with  yourself  now?" 

"I'm  companion  to  old  Miss  Dawson  at  the  Grange." 

She  hesitated  and  looked  up  at  Deryk.  Something  in 
his  expression  prevented  her  going  on. 

"That — venomous — old " 


8o  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Idina  pressed  a  hand  over  his  lips. 

"She's  not,  Deryk.  I've  been  happier  since  I've  been 
with  her " 

"Only  shews  how  damned  unhappy  you  must  have  been 
before,"  he  interrupted,  pulling  away  her  hand,  "What  did 
she  make  you  cry  about?" 

"She  didn't,  honestly." 

Deryk's  scant  patience  poured  out  of  him  at  the  ineffec- 
tual denial,  and  he  incautiously  gripped  her  arm  until  she 
winced  with  pain. 

"She  alzvays  makes  every  companion  cry,"  he  told  her. 
"Sorry,  Dina,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you.  I  remember  one 
girl.  .  .  .    You've  got  to  get  out  of  this." 

Idina  looked  away.  She  too  remembered  a  companion 
of  three  years  before,  whom  Der>'k  had  discovered,  con- 
vulsive and  red-eyed,  trespassing  in  his  father's  park  to  be 
alone  and  unmolested.  He  had  called  at  the  Grange, 
bearded  Miss  Dawson  and  expressed  himself  with  the 
fluency  and  resource  of  an  undergraduate.  Next  day,  it  is 
true,  he  had  been  driven  over  by  his  father  to  make  public 
apology ;  the  apology  still  rankled  as  a  piece  of  meaningless, 
unnecessary  injustice,  and  every  instinct  of  chivalry  was 
outraged  at  the  thought  that  his  father  should  expose  any 
other  girl  to  the  same  treatment. 

"I  can't  afford  it,  Deryk,"  said  Idina.  "You  see,  things 
have  changed  a  good  bit." 

"They're  going  to  change  a  good  bit  more  before  you're 
much  older,"  he  rejoined  truculently.  There  was  a  silence 
for  a  few  moments ;  then  he  looked  at  his  watch.  "My  hat! 
I'm  going  to  be  late  for  lunch !" 

As  he  picked  up  his  cap  and  stick,  the  girl  darted  to  the 
table. 

"Don't  go  till  I've  opened  them  and  seen  what's  inside," 
she  begged,  tugging  eagerly  at  the  string  on  the  first  of  the 
boxes. 

"You  can  thank  me  for  them  to-night,"  he  called  back 
from  the  door. 

"But  I  shan't  see  you  to-night." 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  8i 

"Yes,  you  will,  stupid.  It's  the  ball;  dinner  at  eight- 
thirty." 

"But,  Deryk,  I  haven't  been  invited !" 

She  tried  to  speak  unconcernedly,  but  there  was  long- 
harboured  disappointment  in  her  voice. 

"As  if  you  needed  an  invitation !"  he  answered.  "Philli- 
more  probably  sent  it  to  the  Grange,  and  Miss  Dawson's 
sitting  on  it.  She  would.  I'll  have  a  card  sent  roun  i  this 
afternoon,  if  you  w^ant  one,  and  you've  jolly  well  got  to  book 
supper  with  me.  We'll  have  a  cold  collation  in  the  gun- 
room. Good-bye !  I've  been  late  for  every  meal  so  far, 
and  the  guv'nor  does  get  so  ridiculously  sick  about  it!" 

He  mounted  the  rhododendron-covered  knoll  at  a  run, 
pausing  for  an  instant  on  the  top  to  wave ;  at  the  same  mo- 
ment Idina  turned  in  the  low  doorway  for  a  last  sight  of 
him.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  shining, 
though  she  looked  flustered  by  his  rapid  disposal  of  her; 
a  faint,  happy  "good-bye"  floated  between  them  before 
he  plunged  into  the  dripping  shrubs;  ten  minutes  later  he 
was  hurrying,  wet  to  the  waist,  through  the  hall  of  Ripley 
Court.  Idina  had  certainly  improved  in  the  last  two 
years.  .  .  . 

As  soon  as  luncheon  was  over  he  decoyed  his  guests  into 
the  billiard-room  and  slipped  away  to  give  instructions  for 
a  new  card  to  be  sent  to  Ivy  Cottage.  Old  Phillimore, 
his  father's  secretary  and  one  of  his  own  staunchest  allies, 
was  dozing  in  an  armchair  before  the  fire  in  his  office,  a 
silk  handkerchief  over  his  face  and  the  "Times"  spread 
open  on  his  knees.  A  generation  earlier  he  had  been  a 
middle-aged  clerk  in  the  old  Lincoln's  Inn  chambers,  and 
Sir  Aylmer  had  sentimentally  sought  him  out  and  offered 
him  easy  work  and  a  comfortable  home  for  his  last  years. 
All  day  long  he  sat  in  his  office  with  a  fire  blazing  and 
every  window  shut,  copying  and  filing  letters,  posting  his 
books  and  intermittently  attending  to  the  telephone  switch- 
board. Meticulously  methodical  and  entirely  faithful,  he 
was  already  an  old  servant,  growing  gradually  feebler  in 
company  with  his  master  and  Benson,  the  male  nurse,  Ark- 


82  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Wright,  the  butler,  all  "the  pack  of  old  men,"  as  Hatherly, 
himself  no  longer  young,  described  them. 

"Frightfully  sorry  to  disturb  you,"  Den'k  apologised, 
as  the  old  man  woke  with  a  start  and  snatched  the  hand- 
kerchief from  his  face,  protesting  that  he  had  not  been 
asleep.  "I  saw  Miss  Penrose  this  morning,  and  she  hasn't 
had  her  card  for  the  ball.  Will  you  write  her  another  and 
get  one  of  the  men  to  take  it  round?" 

The  secretary  blinked  for  a  moment;  then,  rising  stiffly, 
he  unlocked  a  drawer  of  his  desk  and  brought  out  two  fools- 
cap sheets  of  typewritten  names,  while  Deryk  fidgeted  with 
impatience. 

"I  don't  call  to  mind  sending  her  one.  Master  Deryk,"  he 
murmured,  adjusting  his  horn-rimmed  glasses  and  point- 
ing  his  way  down  the  page  with  a  knobbly  forefinger^ 
"Now,  I  wonder  how  that  was?"  He  concluded  his  scru'- 
tiny  and  looked  up  with  a  shake  of  the  head.  "No,  sir.  It's 
not  down." 

"What  list  is  this  ?"  Deryk  asked,  holding  out  his  hand  for 
the  papers. 

"Your  father's.  Master  Deryk.  I  took  him  in  the  list 
from  the  last  dance,  and  he  worked  on  that.  He  must  have 
missed.  .  .  .  But  I'll  write  a  card  and  send  it  round  this 
very  minute." 

He  bustled  to  his  desk  and  methodically  arranged  before 
him  a  new  pen,  an  inkstand,  blotting-paper  and  a  card. 
Deryk  started  for  the  door  and  then  turned  back. 

"Oh,  you  might  ring  up  Arkwright  and  tell  him  there'll 
be  one  extra  for  dinner.  If  you'll  give  me  the  plan  of  the 
table,  I'll  shew  where  she's  to  go." 

"I  left  the  plan  with  Sir  Aylmer  this  morning,"  said  the 
secretary. 

Deryk  hurried  out,  looking  at  his  watch  to  see  if  there 
was  time  to  capture  the  plan  before  his  father  began  the 
afternoon  rest.  It  was  after  the  prescribed  hour  of  three, 
but  he  decided  to  risk  it  and  made  his  way  quietly  into  the 
study  after  an  inaudible  knock  at  the  door.  Sir  Aylmer 
was  lying  on  his  sofa,  covered  by  a  rug,  while  Hatherly 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  83 

walked  about,  pulling  down  the  blinds  and  setting  a  screen 
before  the  fire. 

"Is  the  plan  of  the  table  for  to-night  here,  dad?"  Deryk 
asked.  "You  forgot  to  send  Dina  Penrose  a  card,  but  I  saw 
her  this  morning  and  told  her  to  roll  along.  I  want  to  shew 
Arkwright  where  to  put  her." 

Sir  Aylmer  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  long  and  expres- 
sionlessly  at  his  son;  then  his  brows  met  in  a  familiar  grey 
bar. 

"You  must  really  not  take  these  things  into  your  own 
hands  without  consulting  me,"  he  said. 

"But — you  surely  meant  her  to  come?"  Deryk  inter- 
rupted in  astonishment.     "She  always  has." 

"We've  got  as  many  as  the  tables  will  hold — "  his  father 
hesitated ;  Deryk  was  evidently  unconvinced  by  the  excuse, 
but  the  momentary  hesitation  was  in  itself  so  much  an  an- 
swer that  he  decided  to  go  on  where  he  had  begun.  "I 
don't  know  that  you  quite  realise  her  position,  Deryk,"  he 
explained  slowly.     "Since  her  father  died " 

"She's  had  to  earn  her  own  living,"  Deryk  interrupted 
again.  "I  know  all  that,  but  it  doesn't  make  any  differ- 
ence." 

Sir  Aylmer's  fingers  drummed  on  the  table  by  his  side. 

"Not  socially,  but  in  other  ways.  When  she  had  to  face 
the  changed  conditions " 

Deryk's  gesture  of  impatience  cut  short  his  father's  elab- 
orate explanation. 

"I  absolutely  disagree !"  he  exclaimed ;  and,  less  respect- 
fully, "I  think  it's  utter  rot !  But  that's  neither  here  nor 
there,  because  I've  invited  her,  and  Phillimore's  sending 
her  a  card." 

The  announcement  was  thrown  out  as  a  challenge,  and 
Sir  Aylmer  seemed  to  pick  it  up  and  stare  at  it  long  and 
curiously  before  deciding  that  it  was  worth  accepting. 

"You  will  kindly  countermand  your  instructions  to  Phil- 
limore,"  he  said  at  length. 

Deryk  could  feel  himself  trembling  from  his  hips  to  his 


84  MIDAS  AND  SON 

ankles,  as  he  used  to  do  when  waiting  to  be  thrashed  at 
school.     He  shook  his  head  obstinately,  however. 

"No  go.     I  told  you  I'd  invited  her  verbally  as  well." 

"Then  you  will  kindly  countermand  the  invitation."  He 
turned  to  Hatherly,  who  was  conscientiously  inspecting  the 
titles  of  the  books  in  the  revolving  case.  "Turn  out  the 
light,  will  you,  Ted  ?"  he  begged.    "It's  long  after  my  time." 

Hatherly  made  a  movement  towards  the  switch,  nodding 
significantly  to  Deryk.  In  another  moment  the  room  was 
in  darkness ;  and  Der>k,  standing  halfway  into  the  passage, 
was  left  with  a  feeling  of  stampede  and  defeat.  A  sud- 
den boyish  anger  possessed  him,  and  he  pushed  his  way 
back  past  Hatherly  into  the  room. 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  dad !"  he  said  very  deliberately. 
"If  Dina  doesn't  come  to-night,  I  don't  either.  I  mean 
that !" 

Hatherly  caught  him  by  the  shoulders  and  hustled  him 
into  the  passage. 

"You're  making  an  exhibition  of  yourself,"  he  whispered 
with  unusual  warmth. 

Deryk  marched  away  to  the  library.  That  was  like  Hats ! 
To  sit  on  the  fence  until  he  saw  who  was  winning;  then 
to  jump  down  and  kick  a  fellow  in  the  stomach.  Two  to 
one,  as  usual ;  but  it  so  happened  that  one  could  beat  two 
or  ten  or  twenty  over  this  business.  Of  course,  if  anybody 
chose  to  get  a  hired  bravo  like  Benson  to  dress  him  by  main 
force  and  strap  him  into  his  chair  with  a  gag  in  his 
mouth  .  .  . 

The  library  door  shivered,  as  he  slammed  it  behind  him. 


Deryk  was  ostentatiously  absent  before  tea,  during  tea 
and  until  half  an  hour  before  it  was  time  to  dress  for  din- 
ner. On  Sir  Aylmer's  behalf  and  at  his  instigation,  Hath- 
erly started  on  a  room-to-room  quest  and  discovered  him 
at  length  in  the  library,  pasting  in  book  plates  and  entering 
the  new  arrivals  in  a  card-catalogue  by  the  fireplace.  The 
door  was  locked  and  took  so  much  time  to  open  that  Hath- 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  85 

eriy's  tone,  when  once  he  got  inside,  was  studiedly  propi- 
tiatory. 

"I  just  came  to  see  where  you'd  got  to,"  he  explained. 
"Arden's  looking  for  people  to  play  pool." 

'Arden  can  go  on  looking  for  people  to  play  pool,"  Deryk 
rejoined,  as  he  began  to  mount  a  pair  of  library  steps.  'And 
you  didn't  come  here  to  see  where  I'd  got  to." 

Hatherly  wheeled  an  armchair  to  the  side  of  the  fire 
opposite  Deryk  and  lit  a  cigar,  saying  nothing  and  letting 
his  eyes  wander  round  the  room.  For  a  time  Deryk  af- 
fected to  ignore  his  presence,  but  after  an  interval  he  re- 
marked, 

"I  didn't  invite  him  here." 

"Didn't  invite  who  ?" 

"Arden.  The  guv'nor  invites  all  this  crowd  and  he  can 
jolly  well  keep  them  amused.  If  I'm  to  be  treated  as  if  I 
were  a  child;  if  I  mayn't  do  anything  without  consulting 
him  beforehand,  I  won't.     And  that's  that." 

Hatherly  removed  the  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  blew  a 
cloud  of  smoke.  The  round,  red  face  ceased  to  smile,  and 
the  eyes  to  twinkle;  he  was  become  like  Mr.  Pickwick  re- 
proving Alfred  Jingle,  but  a  little  more  worldlily  bored,  a 
little  less  righteously  indignant. 

"You're  behaving  like  a  child,  Deryk,"  he  said  dispas- 
sionately. "You're  not  at  your  best,  when  you're  on  your 
dignity,  or  when  you're  being  rude  to  your  father;  and,  if 
you  want  to  be  treated  as  befits  your  age,  you  should  be- 
have accordingly.  I  don't  know  how  much  you  want  to 
go  to  Asia  Minor  with  Manisty,  but  I  can  tell  you  that 
you're  not  starting  the  right  way  about  it:  you've  got  to 
keep  the  sunny  side  of  your  father ;  he's  got  the  whip-hand." 

Deryk  fitted  the  last  card  into  its  place  and  slammed 
the  drawer  home.  He  was  not  quite  certain  whether  to 
maintain  his  attitude  of  injured,  vengeful  isolation  or  to 
shew  these  old  men  that  they  could  not  always,  have  their 
own  way. 

"Well,  he's  not  got  the  whip-hand  to-night,"  he  said  at 
length,  when  he  had  made  his  decision. 


86  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Hatherly  watched  him  without  comment,  as  he  set  a  lad- 
der against  the  wall  and  mounted  with  an  armful  of  books ; 
without  comment  he  smoked  his  cigar  halfway  through  and 
carried  the  remainder  across  the  hall.  The  study  was  still 
in  darkness,  as  he  had  left  it,  but  a  voice  bade  him  come 
in  and  turn  on  the  light. 

"Did  you  manage  to  get  any  sleep?"  he  enquired.  Sir 
Aylmer  shook  his  head.  "I'm  not  disturbing  you,  then.  Ayl- 
mer,  you  sometimes  pay  me  the  compliment  of  asking  my 
advice,  and  I  know  Deryk  tolerably  well ;  you'll  be  wise  not 
to  press  your  point  about  to-night.  I  know  nothing  of  the 
merits  of  the  case " 

Sir  Aylmer  raised  himself  on  the  sofa  with  one  of  the 
startling  exhibitions  of  vigour  which  behed  his  habitual 
helplessness — and  for  which  he  had  usually  to  pay  with 
interest. 

"The  merits  of  the  case,"  he  interrupted,  "are  that  Deryk 
must  learn  to  do  what  he's  told." 

Hatherly  nodded,  keeping  his  time  as  slow  as  his  com- 
panion's. 

"Well,  he  won't  to-night,"  he  prophesied.  "I  know  him 
better  than  you  do,  when  he's  in  an  obstinate  mood.  And, 
what's  more,  you  can't  make  him.  And,  what's  more  again, 
if  you  try  and  he  sulks,  he'll  let  everybody  know  that  he 
wouldn't  come  to  his  own  ball,  because  you  forbade  the 
house  to  a  certain  girl,  whom  he  will  mention  by  name. 
Everyone  will  then  put  his  own  construction  on  the  story, 
and  you  may  all  of  you  find  that  your  hands  have  been 
forced."  He  paused  to  give  time  for  the  advice  to  sink  in. 
No  one  else  ever  ventured  to  lecture  Sir  Aylmer  as  he 
occasionally  did,  but  he  always  spoke  with  trepidation, 
never  quite  sure  whether  he  was  more  afraid  of  rousing  his 
friend  or  being  snubbed  himself.  "What's  the  matter  with 
the  girl?"  he  went  on  carelessly.  "I  only  ask  out  of  curi- 
osity." 

Sir  Aylmer  was  silent  long  enough  to  shew  that  he  did 
not  intend  to  be  roused. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter,"  he  said  abruptly.     "You 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  87 

used  to  see  her  about  here,  when  Penrose  was  alive. 
They've  been  very  intimate  since  they  were  children,  but 
they're  growing  up  now,  and  I  don't  choose  to  encourage 
the  intimacy.  I've  no  preconceptions  about  Deryk,  I  pro- 
pose to  leave  him  complete  liberty  of  action,  but  he  must 
have  time  to — well,  to  look  round." 

For  a  moment  Hatherly  debated  the  wisdom  of  enquir- 
ing what  kind  of  free  action  Sir  Aylmer  proposed  to  al- 
low Deryk  and  when  it  was  to  begin.  Few  men  talked 
more  of  freedom  and  conceded  it  less — or  conceded  it  more 
irrationally  and  erratically.  Deryk  was  allowed  to  read 
what  he  liked,  travel  where  he  chose,  determine — in  theory 
— his  own  career ;  but,  when  he  wanted  money,  he  was  given 
a  cheque  for  a  hundred  pounds,  and  at  home  his  father  al- 
most shadowed  him  to  see  that  he  was  behaving  with  con- 
ventional propriety.  There  was  no  immediate  object,  how- 
ever, in  enlarging  the  issue,  and  Hatherly  buried  himself 
in  a  book  until  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  Sir  Aylmer 
brooded  silently,  slowly  and  seriously  as  if  he  were  buy- 
ing a  fleet  of  steamships  or  selling  a  railroad;  in  time  he 
came  to  see  that  an  invitation  once  given,  verbally  or  in 
writing,  could  not  be  cancelled  as  a  disciplinary  measure 
directed  against  a  third  party ;  and  after  that  he  recognised 
quickly  and  almost  without  resentment  that  Deryk  had 
won.  He  lacked  the  imagination,  however,  to  make  his 
surrender  graceful,  so  that  Deryk,  dressed  for  once  in  good 
time,  waited  by  his  chair  in  the  hall  with  a  set,  white  face 
and  sunken,  dark  eyes,  nervously  obstinate  to  the  last.  He 
was  resolved,  if  necessary,  to  keep  dinner  back  until  nine 
and,  whatever  happened,  to  enter  the  dining-room  with 
Idina  or  not  at  all.  A  place  had  been  laid  for  her  in  accord- 
ance with  his  instructions  to  Arkwright;  what  his  father's 
instructions  might  have  been  in  the  interval,  he  had  no 
means  of  guessing. 

Punctually  at  half-past  eight  the  question  was  decided. 
The  Grange  car  drew  up  at  the  door,  and  a  thin,  middle- 
aged  man,  recognised  as  Sidney  Dawson  by  his  exaggerated 
shoulders  and  waist,  helped  Idina  to  get  out  and  trotted 


88  MIDAS  AND  SON 

boyishly  up  the  steps  at  her  side.  Bending  almost  im- 
perceptibly forward,  Sir  Aylmer  greeted  her  with  the  same 
stereotyped  welcome  that  he  had  offered  to  his  other  guests, 
and  Deryk  went  in  to  dinner  with  mixed  feelings  of  relief 
and  embarrassment  and,  stronger  than  either,  a  sense  of 
misunderstanding;  Sir  Aylmer  was  always  so  scrupulously 
correct  that,  if  the  pearl  necklace  were  an  error  of  taste,  if 
Idina  were  by  the  remotest  possibility  to  be  placed  in  a 
false  position  either  by  coming  to  the  ball  or  by  accepting 
that  wretched  necklace,  there  would  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances be  nothing  more  to  be  said  save  that  scrupulosity 
sometimes  ran  riot.  But  Deryk  had  a  disquieting  convic- 
tion that  he  was  not  being  told  the  whole  truth.  Two  days 
earlier  he  had  asked  whether  Idina  Penrose  was  dining 
on  the  first  night  of  the  house-party;  Sir  Aylmer  had  de- 
liberately let  slip  an  opportunity  of  explanation  and  had 
merely  answered  that  no  one  was  being  invited  from  out- 
side. And  again,  wdthout  warning,  he  had  been  left  to  dis- 
cover fortuitously  that  she  had  not  been  sent  a  card  for  the 
ball.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Deryk  seemed  to  find  a 
want  of  frankness  in  his  father.  .  .  .  Looking  down  the 
table  to  Idina's  place,  he  could  not  understand  his  father's 
sudden  aversion  toward  a  girl  with  whom  he  had  been 
deliberately  brought  up.  ...  He  could  not  understand, 
either,  what  amusement  she  could  get  from  talking  to  an 
old  bore  like  Sidney  Dawson,  whose  conversation  consisted 
of  endless  personal  anecdotes  about  the  reckless  life  which 
he  and  his  friends  had  led  in  the  forgotten  bars,  the  dere- 
lict saloons  and  dead  night-clubs  of  London  in  the  eighties. 
Of  course,  she  had  to  be  decently  civil  to  her  employer's 
brother.  .  .  .  And  he  had  given  her  a  lift  in  his  car.  But 
it  was  an  infernal  shame  that  she  should  be  in  bondage  to 
Miss  Dawson,  that  she  should  pretty  well  have  to  accept 
his  dainned  officious  lift.  ...  It  must  be  the  most  awful 
rough  luck  on  a  girl  to  be  suddenly  hard  up,  with  no  one 
to  help  her.  At  least  the  people  who  couU  help  her  took 
darned  good  care  not  to — not  to  help  her  properly,  that  is 
(his  own  father  had  been  perfectly  incomprehensible — an 


1 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  89 

utter  brute  with  his  nonsense  about  working  out  your  own 
salvation),  to  buy  her  clothes  and  jewels,  to  seat  her  cross- 
legged,  as  it  were,  on  a  magic  carpet  and  whirl  her  away 
to  London  and  all  the  best  and  most  expensive  shops ;  a  hat 
here,  furs  there  (with  her  colouring  she  would  look  ador- 
able in  ermine),  jewellery  ...  his  racing  imagination  was 
temporarily  checked  by  the  recollection  of  the  pearl  neck- 
lace; then,  tossing  the  unwelcome  obstacle  aside,  it  sped 
forward  again.  It  would  be  such  fun  to  watch  her  lips 
parting,  to  see  the  dark  blue  eyes  lighting  up !  With  an  in- 
come of  two  pounds  a  minute  (it  was  really  more),  you 
could  go  on  doing  this  all  day  long  for  any  girl,  whether — 
you — really — technically — cared  for  her — or  not.  Some  day 
the  money  would  be  his.  .  .  . 

He  was  embarrassed  and  at  the  same  time  curiously  re- 
lieved to  find  Lady  Sally  Farwell  indefatigably  at  an  ad- 
vanced stage  of  an  Odyssean  story. 

".  .  .  So  we  went  straight  back  to  Buda  Pesth.  Have 
you  ever  been  there,  Mr.  Lancing?" 

"Oh,  by  Jove!"  ejaculated  Deryk  with  specious  interest. 

"Have  you  ever  been  there?"  she  repeated. 

"No;  that  is,  yes,  of  course,"  he  answered  in  some  con- 
fusion. 

As  soon  as  dinner  was  over.  Sir  Aylmer  returned  to  his 
former  commanding  position  in  the  hall  and  claimed  Deryk 
to  stand  at  his  side  and  help  receive  the  guests  for  the  ball. 
Until  nearly  eleven  he  stood  automatically  smiling  and  shak- 
ing hands,  then  conscientiously  solicited  and  received  dances 
from  the  half-dozen  girls  that  he  imagined  his  father  would 
least  like  him  to  offend.  God!  the  English  were  supposed 
to  take  their  pleasures  sadly,  but  what  could  you  do? 
Prima  facie  a  ball  was  designed  to  provide  enjoyment  for 
young  people ;  well,  it  couldn't  amuse  anyone  to  give  or  re- 
ceive a  duty  dance;  as  for  the  young  people,  half  the 
guests  were  unknown  to  him,  the  other  half  seemed  to  be 
about  ninety.  Really,  what  was  the  use  of  inviting  old 
Marsham,  the  vicar,  unless  he  were  going  to  chirp  to  dow- 
agers?    Or  Forsyte,  who,  by  the  way,  should  learn  not  to 


90  MIDAS  AND  SON 

come  up  on  an  unprofessional  occasion  and  tell  a  fellow 
that  he  was  looking  fine-drawn;  who  wouldn't  be  fine- 
drawn at  Ripley  Court?  The  pathetic  little  dolls  of  crea- 
tures all  affected  a  polite  interest  in  his  travels,  and  by 
midnight,  when  he  rid  himself  of  the  last  with  a  hurried 
"  'Nother  one  later,  may  I  ?"  he  felt  that  nothing  but  the 
prospect  of  supper  with  Idina  kept  him  from  screaming 
aloud.  ...  As  he  scoured  the  neighbourhood  of  the  ball- 
room in  search  of  her,  he  found  Yolande  Stornaway  sit- 
ting alone  in  the  gallery  with  her  boyish  auburn  head  rest- 
ing on  her  arms,  gazing  down  on  to  the  serpentine  coils  of 
the  dancers. 

"Lost  a  valuable  partner,  Yolande?"  he  enquired.  "I 
don't  know  a  tithe  of  the  people  here,  but  I'll  look  for  him, 
if  you  like.     Oh,  it's  no  good,  the  music's  stopping." 

She  shook  her  bead. 

"I'm  resting  this  one,"  she  told  him.  "Tell  me,  Deryk, 
is  your  father  going  to  let  you  go  with  Dr.  Manisty?" 

Deryk  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  out  his  cigarette  case. 

"He  hasn't  decided  yet,"  he  answered.  "There  seems  to 
be  some  portentous  business  about  getting  to  understand 
the  family  affairs,  my  position  here — "  He  blew  a  scornful 
puff  of  smoke.  "In  other  words,  fooling  about  here  at  this 
sort  of  thing  all  my  days." 

Yolande  half  turned  her  head  to  him. 

"And  are  you  going  to  stand  that?"  she  asked  provoca- 
tively. 

Deryk  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  he  puts  his  foot  down,  I  shall  have  to.  The  purse- 
strings,  my  dear  Yolande." 

She  tossed  her  head  contemptuously. 

"If  you  were  worth  a  snap  of  the  fingers,  you'd  simply 
refuse ;  it's  a  question  of  pride ;  and,  if  he  wouldn't  give  in, 
you'd  go  out  and  earn  your  own  living.  With  your  brains 
you  could  do  it  as  easily  as  anything.  Deryk,  you  simply 
couldn't  live  here  doing  nothing." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  again  and  pointed  down  to 
the  ballroom. 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  91 

"About  half  the  fellows  down  there  are  really  doing 
nothing.  Deganway's  in  the  Foreign  Office,  Oakleigh 
spends  his  leisure  moments  running  a  paper,  but  most  of 
them  are  sort  of  killing  time  till  their  fathers  die.  And 
then  I  suppose  they  sit  tight  as  the  complete  country  gen- 
tleman until  their  sons  grow  up  and  wait  for  them  to  clear 
out.    This  is  a  remarkable  country,  Yolande." 

"To  an  American." 

Deryk  turned  on  her  questioningly. 

"I'm  not  an  American,"  he  said.  "I  was  born  there,  but 
that  doesn't  make  me  an  American." 

Yolande  laughed  gently  to  herself. 

"Perhaps  it  keeps  you  from  becoming  anything  else. 
Deryk,  I'm  going  to  be  frightfully  rude.     May  I?" 

He  sighed  resignedly  and  looked  away  crestfallen,  like 
a  child  under  rebuke. 

"Do  you  need  leave  after  all  these  years?"  he  enquired. 

His  forlorn  expression  and  tone  aroused  Yolande's  quick 
compassion. 

"You're  different  from  all  the  people  down  there,  dear 
Deryk,"  she  explained;  "your  life's  bound  to  be  different. 
They  were  born  to  it,  and — well,  you  know,  you  weren't." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  in  which  he  gazed  dreamily 
down. 

"I  think  I  realise  that,"  he  said  at  length. 

"Your  father  hasn't,"  Yolande  rejoined.  "He  doesn't 
belong  to  the  place,  and  the  place  doesn't  belong  to  him. 
...  I  suppose  it  takes  generations  to  get  your  roots  right 
down  into  the  soil.  And,  if  he's  ever  had  the  instinct, 
America  would  have  knocked  it  out  of  him.  A  year  on 
my  own  in  London  has  killed  centuries  of  cherished  ideas." 
She  turned  with  a  friendly  smile.  "I'm  very  fond  of  you, 
Deryk;  you  can  do  such  lots  of  things,  and  I  shall  never 
forgive  you,  if  you  waste  your  life  trying  to  do  something 
that  was  never  worth  doing  at  any  time  and  that  you 
couldn't  do,  if  it  were." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  laugh,  as  the  band  began  to 
tune  up  for  the  next  waltz. 


92  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"I  am  doing  my  best,"  he  protested.  "But  if  my  fa- 
ther  " 

"Oh,  why  aren't  you  a  bit  more  of  a  rebel?"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Everybody  has  a  father,  and  every  father's  nat- 
urally an  obscurantist.  D'you  suppose  I  didn't  have  to 
make  a  fight  for  it?" 

"You  told  me  you  had  three  hundred  a  year.  You  ap- 
preciate I  haven't  a  bob  of  my  own  ?" 

Yolande  sighed  and  pushed  back  her  chair. 

"As  if  you  couldn't  make  it  over  and  over  again !  My 
child,  I  should  like  to  see  you  getting  frightfully  into  debt 
or  marrying  someone  your  father  disapproved  of.  That 
would  make  you  shew  your  mettle !  But  I  expect  you'd 
sigh  as  a  lover  and  obey  as  a  son,  like  Gibbon.  You're 
hopeless,  Deryk ;  you've  got  no  backbone." 

"I'm  keeping  my  partner  waiting,"  he  said,  bowing  and 
turning  to  go. 

Idina  was  sitting  in  the  hall  with  Sidney  Dawson,  who 
seemed  to  be  maintaining  a  monologue  of  sparkling  an- 
ecdotes. As  a  young  man  he  had  wasted  a  few  years  and 
a  portion  of  his  health  on  strictly  conventional  dissipation ; 
when  his  friends  married,  he  kept  alive  in  memory  the 
glories  of  their  saturnalia  and  boasted  that  he  was  too  old 
a  bird  to  be  caught  in  the  trap  of  matrimony.  Young  mem- 
bers of  the  County  Club  were  flooded  with  accounts  of 
his  former  dare-deviltry,  but,  after  a  short  renown  for  a 
certain  enviable  worldliness,  the  young  men  seemed  to  tire 
of  him ;  they  had  letters  to  write,  when  he  pulled  up  a  chair 
next  to  theirs ;  and,  if  they  could  not  always  refuse  his  in- 
vitations, at  least  they  never  invited  him  back.  Dawson 
discovered  that  he  was  growing  middle-aged.  True  to  pose, 
he  interested  himself  in  the  health  that  he  had  so  gloriously 
squandered,  and  a  pleasurable  flicker  of  old  fires  shone  out 
when  he  was  able  to  confide  to  strangers  at  Homburg, 
Marienbad  or  Harrogate,  "My  own  fault,  you  know,  but  I 
don't  regret  it.  You  can't  put  old  heads  on  young  shoul- 
ders, and  I  had  a  good  run  for  my  money.  .  .  ."  For  the 
rest  he  was  to  be  found  at  the  age  of  five  and  forty  in  the 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  93 

smoking-room  of  the  County  Club,  ineffectual,  idle  and 
bored,  seeking  any  kind  of  companionship  and  finding  it 
rarer  and  harder  to  achieve,  or  paying  quarrelsome  visits 
to  Aston  Ripley,  where  his  invalid  sister  ruled  the  Grange 
in  his  absence  and  visibly  resented  his  intrusion.  Since 
Idina's  arrival,  indeed,  he  spent  less  time  in  London.  She 
was  an  attractive  new  audience,  and,  though  his  sister 
interfered  spitefully  with  all  gallantry  of  manner  within  the 
house,  he  discovered  agreeable  variety  and  interest  in  smart- 
ening his  appearance,  trying  the  old  conversational  gam- 
bits and  playing  the  decorous  cavalier  to  the  girl  between 
Ivy  Cottage  and  the  Grange. 

"Well,  I  mustn't  be  greedy,"  he  said  regretfully  at  the 
end  of  his  story,  when  he  saw  Deryk  fidgeting  in  front  of 
them.  "Perhaps  later  on?  .  .  .  And  you'll  let  me  know 
as  soon  as  you  want  the  car,  Miss  Penrose?  My  time  is 
entirely  at  your  disposal.    Thank  you  very  much,  I'm  sure." 

Deryk  hurried  her  away  for  one  turn  round  the  ball- 
room before  supper.  As  they  came  back  into  the  hall,  he 
met  his  father  with  a  majestic  lady  and  her  daughter  on 
either  side  of  his  chair. 

"Oh,  I  should  like  to  introduce  my  son.  Lady  Dainton," 
said  Sir  Aylmer,  laying  an  arresting  hand  on  Deryk's  arm. 
"Miss  Dainton,  my  son.  Lady  Dainton's  car  unfortunately 
broke  down  by  Bishop's  Cross,  and  she  has  only  just  ar- 
rived." 

Deryk  bowed  and  murmured  some  words  of  stereotyped 
regret.  He  was  not  going  to  have  his  evening  spoiled  with 
any  more  duty  dances. 

"We  were  just  going  in  to  supper,"  he  told  the  girl. 
"May  I  have  one  later?     Say,  missing  two?" 

They  reached  the  gun-room  without  further  hindrance, 
and  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  he  locked  the  door  and 
poured  out  two  glasses  of  champagne.  Idina  tried  to  check 
him,  but  he  waved  away  her  interference. 

"I  know  you  don't  take  it,  but  it'll  do  us  both  good  to- 
night. I've  had  a  perfectly  damnable  evening."  He 
drained  the  glass  and  filled  another.     "Are  you  enjoying 


94  MIDAS  AND  SON 

yourself,  Dina?"  She  nodded,  bright-eyed,  over  the  rim 
of  the  glass.  "Well,  that's  one  good  thing,  I  can  imagine 
less  dreary  recreations  than  listening  to  Dawson's  conver- 
sation, but  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes.  Look  here,  as 
I  told  you  this  morning,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  stay  on  at 
the  Grange.     That's  understood,  isn't  it?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head  and  silently  accepted  the  food, 
which  he  placed  before  her.  She  was  not  in  love  with  her 
work,  but,  on  her  father's  death,  his  rare  friends — a  dozen 
half-pay  majors  with  troubles  of  their  own — had  proffered 
so  guarded  a  sympathy,  and  her  two  thousand  pounds 
threatened  to  dwindle  and  disappear  so  quickly  that  she 
had  applied  to  a  Regent  Street  agency  for  employment  on 
her  own  account.  The  agency,  warning  her  that  latter-day 
governesses  were  expected  to  have  passed  examinations  and 
to  hold  certificates,  sent  her  to  a  house  where  she  had  spir- 
itual and  physical  custody  of  two  ill-bred  small  boys  from 
the  moment  when  she  washed  and  dressed  them  in  the 
morning,  through  long  hours  of  lessons  and  exercise,  till 
the  time  when  she  washed  and  put  them  to  bed  at  night. 
She  was  rescued  from  this  by  a  carelessly  good-natured 
woman,  who  met  her  in  Hyde  Park,  looked  approvingly  at 
her  neat  figure  and  pretty  face  and  set  her,  in  a  rustling 
silk  dress,  to  sell  hats  at  an  exorbitantly  expensive  shop  in 
Albemarle  Street.  For  a  time  she  did  well,  but  one  day 
a  very  thin,  bored  young  man,  with  an  old  face  and  watch- 
ful eyes,  sat  in  the  background  with  his  chin  on  the  gold 
nob  of  his  cane,  following  and  devouring  Idina  with  his 
eyes,  while  his  wife  grimaced  at  herself  under  successive 
unsuitable  hats.  On  the  morrow  she  was  told  by  telephone 
that  the  hat  finally  chosen  required  alteration ;  could  she 
call  to  take  instructions  ?  The  thin  young  man  collided  with 
her  in  the  hall  at  Bruton  Street,  as  she  left,  and  apologised 
at  unnecessary  length.  A  week  later,  meeting  her  as  she 
left  the  shop  for  luncheon,  he  told  her  that  all  was  now  sat- 
isfactory and  suggested  that  they  should  lunch  together. 
Idina  refused,  so  the  thin  young  man  made  a  practice  of 
waiting  for  her  as  she  came  out  of  the  shop  and  walking 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  95 

home  with  her  to  her  lodgings.  When  she  complained  to 
the  carelessly  good-natured  woman,  she  was  told  not  to  be 
a  little  prude.  After  that  Idina  returned  to  the  agency, 
and  was  sent  on  trial  as  secretary  to  a  member  of  parlia- 
ment. At  the  end  of  a  week  she  was  told  that  it  was  im- 
practicable for  anyone  unable  to  write  shorthand  to  get 
through  the  day's  work. 

Sir  Aylmer  Lancing  had  at  the  outset  promised  to  pay 
the  expense  of  her  brother's  education  and  leave  them  the 
use  of  Ivy  Cottage,  if  she  could  find  any  suitable  employ- 
ment for  herself.  (But  she  must  recognise  that  she  had 
to  work  out  her  own  salvation.)  She  was  reluctant  to 
trespass  on  his  good  nature,  but  the  agency  greeted  her  re- 
turn with  impatience,  and  her  pride  had  lost  something  of 
its  bloom  in  the  past  eight  months.  She  wrote  frankly, 
with  the  feeling  that  her  father's  millionaire  friend  might 
have  done  more  and  talked  less  about  working  out  salva- 
tions, and  after  a  disheartening  delay  was  told  that  Miss 
Dawson,  with  whom  she  was  already  acquainted,  would 
give  her  a  trial  as  companion. 

Some  part  of  this  history  Idina  unfolded  to  Deryk,  as 
they  sat  at  supper. 

"Well,  it's  got  to  stop,"  was  all  that  he  would  say,  wav- 
ing away  her  protests  and  pouring  her  out  another  glass 
of  champagne. 

"But,  Deryk " 

Far  down  the  passage  he  heard  a  voice  calling:  it  drew 
nearer,  and  he  caught  the  sound  of  his  own  name;  nearer 
still,  and  he  recognised  the  voice  as  his  father's.  Springing 
to  the  door,  he  unlocked  it  and,  jumping  on  to  the  table, 
removed  the  bulbs  from  the  electric  light.  Then  he  turned 
up  the  switch  and  dragged  Idina  on  to  a  sofa  behind  the 
door. 

The  voice  came  ever  nearer,  to  be  followed  by  the  tread 
of  slow  footsteps,  as  Sir  Aylmer  rose  from  his  chair  and 
impatiently  turned  the  handle.  The  door  opened  for  a  mo- 
ment and  closed  again. 


96  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Just  as  well  I  wasn't  smoking,"  Deryk  observed  in  a 
whisper. 

"But  oughtn't  you  to  go  ?"  Idina  urged. 

"Not  if  I  know  it.  It's  probably  only  the  Dainton  girl, 
wondering  what's  become  of  me." 

"But,  Deryk,  it's  awfully  rude "  she  began. 

He  put  his  hand  quietly  over  her  lips,  as  she  had  done  to 
him  in  the  morning. 

"My  darling  Dina,  Miss  Dainton  can  have  six  partners 
for  every  dance,  if  she  likes ;  she  knows  everybody  and 
she's  very  good-looking,  and  for  the  last  three  years  people 
have  been  falling  over  each  other  to  marry  her.  She  can 
spare  me.  This  is  almost  the  first  time  I've  seen  you  since 
I  came  back — if  I  take  away  my  hand,  will  you  promise 
to  be  sensible?" 

She  nodded,  with  a  laugh. 

"Turn  on  the  lights  again,  Deryk,"  she  begged. 

"Don't  you  like  it  like  this  ?" 

"It'd  look  so  funny,  if  anyone  came  in." 

He  jumped  up  and  turned  the  key  again  in  the  door. 

"Nobody  can  come  in  now,"  he  said.  "And  there's  the 
most  gorgeous  moonlight.  Dina,  dear,  you  do  look  sweet 
to-night !" 

She  smiled  without  speaking  and  allowed  him  to  take  her 
hand  in  his  own.  His  lean  face  had  softened  into  a  smile, 
and  in  the  moonlight  his  eyes  were  liquid  and  dark. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come  back,"  she  whispered. 

"I'm  probably  going  away  again  quite  soon." 

"Oh,  Deryk,  where?" 

"Asia  Minor.     It's  a  digging-party  with  Dr.  Manisty." 

For  several  moments  neither  spoke;  then  Idina  said  in  a 
level  voice, 

"I  expect  you'll  enjoy  that." 

"I  shouldn't  go  otherwise,"  he  answered  easily.  There 
was  another  pause,  and  he  became  conscious  that  the  con- 
versation was  flagging.  "I  hope  you'll  have  the  decency  to 
write  to  me  this  time,"  he  said  with  mock  severity. 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  97 

The  girl  turned  and  laid  her  disengaged  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"I  wish  you  weren't  going  away  so  soon,"  she  whispered 
with  trembling  lips. 

"But  you  don't  want  me  to  stay  in  this  graveyard  ?" 

She  nodded  and  turned  quickly  away  so  that  the  moon- 
light, shining  on  her  face,  should  not  shew  him  that  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Sliding  one  arm  round  her  shoul- 
ders, Deryk  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  In 
all  the  years  of  their  friendship  they  had  never  had  occa- 
sion to  kiss;  instinctively  she  drew  back,  but  he  threw  his 
other  arm  round  her  neck  and  bent  forward,  kissing  her 
again.  The  resistance  grew  fainter,  her  eyehds  drooped  and 
closed,  and  he  pressed  her  to  him  until  her  quickened  breath- 
ing warmed  his  cheek,  and  he  could  feel  the  beating  of  her 
heart. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  stay,  darling?"  he  whispered. 

She  sought  his  ear  with  her  lips  and  murmured  drowsily, 

"Yes." 

At  the  far  end  of  the  great  house  the  ceaseless  "tmn- 
tum-tum,  ^wm-tum-tum"  of  the  piano  could  still  be  heard ; 
the  other  instruments,  the  melody  of  the  waltz  itself,  were 
lost.  From  time  to  time  a  door  slammed,  there  was  a  whirr 
of  an  engine  and  the  crackle  of  heavy  tires  on  the  gravel 
of  the  drive.  Once  Idina  asked  whether  they  ought  not  to 
be  going  back. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  ?"  Deryk  whispered. 

Her  arms  tightened  round  him. 

"But  your  father?"  she  began. 

"He's  gone  to  bed  hours  ago,"  was  the  answer. 

Half-asleep  and  with  eyes  closed  they  sat  without  speak- 
ing again  until  Hatherly's  voice  at  the  end  of  the  passage 
called  "Deryk."  The  call  was  not  repeated,  but  Deryk 
loosened  one  arm  to  look  at  his  watch. 

"My  hat,  it's  half-past  three !"  he  exclaimed. 

Idina  jumped  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of  dismay.  Her 
dress  had  slipped  half  off  her  shoulders,  and  she  pulled  it 


98  MIDAS  AND  SON 

into  place  with  one  hand,  while  the  other  strove  to  arrange 
her  dishevelled  hair. 

"Mr.  Dawson's  waiting  to  take  me  home !"  she  said. 

"And  I  ought  to  have  been  saying  good-bye  to  all  these 
people,"  said  Deryk,  as  he  settled  his  tie  and  picked  up  his 
gloves. 

They  hurried  into  the  hall,  rather  consciously  avoiding 
each  other's  eyes.  The  first  person  whom  they  saw  was  Sir 
Aylmer,  seated  in  his  wheeled  chair,  -grey  of  face  and  des- 
perately tired,  bidding  farewell  to  the  last  of  his  guests. 
Sidney  Dawson,  in  fur  coat  and  muffler,  was  drinking  soup 
and  smoking  a  cigar  with  Hatherly;  Summertown,  flushed 
and  rather  noisy,  was  collecting  Deganway  and  Sam  Dain- 
ton  for  a  last  raid  on  the  supper-room. 

"At  last!"  Yolande  Stornaway  murmured  to  Manisty,  as 
the  truants  came  in  sight.     "Just  about  three  hours." 

"D-does  one  cheer  or  make  a  speech  or  wha-what?" 
enquired  Manisty.     "I'm  not  a  f-family  man,  you  know." 

"You  can  safely  leave  all  that  to  Sir  Aylmer,"  Yolande 
answered.     "But  she's  a  dear  little  thing." 

Deryk  advanced  with  exaggerated  ease  into  the  middle  of 
the  hall. 

"We've  been  having  supper,"  he  announced.  "I'd  no  idea 
it  was  so  late." 


Deryk  was  too  much  excited  to  sleep  for  the  short  re- 
mainder of  the  night  and  appeared  in  the  middle  of  the 
morning  with  dark  rings  round  very  bright  eyes.  As  he 
turned  from  side  to  side,  trying  to  clear  his  head  of  one 
over-insistent  waltz,  he  had  prepared  a  number  of  elo- 
quently defiant  speeches  for  use  with  his  father,  when  re- 
quired to  explain  his  behaviour  overnight.  He  was  eager 
to  fling  them  off,  while  the  touch  of  Idina's  lips  was  still 
warm  on  his  cheek  and  his  arms  seemed  to  draw  her  yield- 
ing body  to  him,  so  that  his  tightly-strung  valour  became 
slack,  when  Hatherly  reported  at  breakfast  that  Sir  Aylmer 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE  99 

was  seriously  overtired  and  would  spend  the  day  in  his 
room  without  seeing  anyone. 

Twenty- four  hours'  uncertainty  was  bad  enough,  but  it 
was  made  worse  by  the  knowledge  that  everybody  in  the 
house  and  a  sprinkling  of  people  in  the  neighbourhood  were 
comparing  suspicions,  gossiping  and  exchanging  questions 
every  moment  that  he  was  out  of  earshot.  Hatherly  talked 
at  breakfast  with  a  Rhadamanthine  face;  George  Oakleigh, 
on  entering  the  dining-room,  smiled  at  him  a  little  wistfully 
and  said  nothing;  Summertown,  meeting  him  in  the  hall, 
punched  him  in  the  ribs  and  addressed  him  as  an  "old  dog," 
while  Deganway,  who  prided  himself  on  the  range  and  ac- 
curacy of  his  personal  knowledge,  spared  no  one  in  his 
efforts  to  find  out  precisely  and  exhaustively  who  this  Miss 
Penrose  was.  No  one  congratulated  him  in  terms  except 
Yolande,  who  ran  up,  as  he  was  convoying  a  party  to  the 
training-stable  on  the  Downs,  and  poured  out  a  stream  of 
whispered  questions. 

"Most  interesting!  First  I've  heard  about  it,"  he  an- 
swered, as  he  tried  to  break  away. 

"Don't  be  silly!"  she  exclaimed.  "Does  Sir  Aylmer  ap- 
prove ?" 

"There's  nothing  to  approve  of." 

Yolande  laughed. 

"That  may  be  truer  than  you  care,"  she  warned  him.  "I 
hope,  in  spite  of  what  I  said  last  night,  that  he  won't  stand 
in  the  way." 

"What  of?" 

Yolande  turned  and  gripped  him  by  both  arms. 

"I  shall  shake  you  in  a  minute,  Deryk !"  she  cried.  "You 
know  I'm  a  jolly  good  friend  to  you,  you  know  I  want 
you  and  her  to  be  happy " 

"But  do  you  imagine  we're  engaged?"  he  interrupted. 

Yolande  looked  at  him  with  wide-open  grey  eyes. 

"Well,  aren't  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  repeat,  it's  the  first  I've  heard  about  it,"  he  told  her 
again,  and  she  dropped  away  from  his  side  with  a  chastened 
sense  that  he  did  not  want  her  sympathy  or  good  wishes — • 


100  MIDAS  AND  SON 

also  that  he  was  behaving  oafishly  over  the  whole  busi- 
ness. .  .  . 

During  the  afternoon  he  made  a  second  attempt  to  see 
his  father,  but  Benson  would  not  allow  him  inside  the 
room,  and  he  could  only  give  himself  the  barren  satisfac- 
tion of  constructing  imaginative  and  unexpectedly  heroic 
versions  of  the  impending  interview.  Forty-eight  hours  be- 
fore it  was  a  simple  matter  of  saying  casually,  "Oh,  by  the 
way,  Dina  and  I  are  engaged,  dad!  Hope  you  approve!" 
He  might  be  entirely  wrong,  of  course,  but  he  felt  now 
that  his  father  would  not  approve  and,  what  was  worse, 
that  he  might  not  state  his  objections  frankly.  The  episode 
of  the  invitation — Deryk  shivered  disgustedly;  it  left  an 
unpleasant  taste  in  the  mouth;  and  the  whole  objection 
seemed  to  arise  from  a  new  and  amazing  quality  of  snob- 
bishness. Well,  he  was  damned  if  he  was  going  to  be  told 
that  Dina  wasn't  good  enough  for  him ;  he  would  not  intro- 
duce her  name  or  allow  her  to  be  discussed.  Of  course,  he 
could  not  marry  without  money,  and,  if  his  father  per- 
sisted in  his  opposition,  money  would  not  be  forthcoming. 
Obviously  the  question  of  an  independent  income  had  to 
be  settled  once  and  for  all ;  and  thereafter,  if  his  father 
proved  obdurate,  had  he  the  means  of  making  himself  in- 
dependent of  his  father?  Yolande  thought  so,  but  how 
long  would  it  take,  and  how  the  deuce  was  one  to  begin  ? 
He  could  only  find  out  by  trying.  .  .  .  And  the  immediate 
problem  was  what  line  to  take  when  required  to  explain 
his  three  hours'  absence  overnight,  his  general  neglect  of 
duty  towards  his  other  guests? 

The  imaginary  interview  was  cut  short  by  George  Oak- 
leigh,  who  strolled  languidly  into  the  room,  helped  him- 
self to  a  cigarette  and  sat  down  on  the  corner  of  the  billiard- 
table  by  Deryk's  sofa  with  the  announcement  that  he  had 
come  to  talk  journalism  and  propaganda. 

'T  hope  you  weren't  asleep,"  he  began.  "Miss  Storna- 
way told  me  yesterday  that  you  were  probably  going  to 
Asia  Minor  with  Manisty.  Is  it  true?  My  reason  for 
asking  is  that  everybody  seems  to  expect  a  third  Balkan  war 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE         loi 

as  soon  as  Turkey  has  got  the  ships  we're  building  for  her 
— Turkey  and  Bulgaria  against  the  rest,  you  know — and 
I  want  all  the  independent  information  I  can  get  for  my 
paper.  I  don't  know  whether  you'd  care  to  do  a  series 
or  articles  for  me ;  if  you  go  there  with  good  introductions, 
you  might  be  able  to  get  me  a  lot  of  good  stuff,  and  I'm 
quite  sure  that  we  aren't  in  sight  of  the  end  of  trouble  there. 
I  can  introduce  you  to  our  Ministers  in  Athens  and  Sofia. 
The  Ambassador  at  Constantinople  I  don't  know,  but  my 
friend  O'Rane  can  manage  that.  I'm  afraid  that  our  rate 
for  contributions  won't  be  much  of  an  inducement  to  you, 
I  don't  know  whether  you  feel  equal  to  undertaking  the 
job " 

"If  I  go,  I'll  send  anything  I  get,"  Deryk  promised. 

"Have  you  done  anything  of  the  kind  before?" 

"No,  but  I  could  pick  it  up,  of  course,"  Deryk  answered. 

Oakleigh  smiled  a  little  ruefully. 

"Journalism  isn't  as  easy  or  interesting  or  picturesque  as 
you  might  think  from  the  novels  written  about  it,"  he  said. 

"But  any  man  of  decent  education  can  make  a  living 
out  of  it,  surely,"  Deryk  persisted,  "even  if  he's  had  no  pre- 
vious experience?" 

Oakleigh  gave  no  categorical  reply,  but  for  half  an  hour 
he  talked  of  men  and  methods,  journalistic  giants  and  jour- 
nalistic triumphs;  a  corner  of  the  veil  was  lifted  from  eter- 
nally fascinating,  ever  active  Fleet  Street;  he  told  of  the 
proud  ships  that  had  swaggered  from  port,  never  to  return, 
and  of  the  labouring  tramps  that  had  ploughed  their  way  to 
and  fro  with  riches  greater  and  ever  greater  for  their 
owners ;  of  the  men  who  had  come  to  educate  the  press  and 
the  men  whom  the  press  had  educated. 

"Good  journalism  has  an  excellence  of  its  own,"  he  con- 
cluded, "which  is  not  to  be  won  in  a  night  by  your  most 
brilliant  thinker  or  writer.  Frankly  I  should  probably  have 
to  cut  your  effusions  to  pieces  till  you'd  gone  through  the 
mill." 

Deryk's  academic  contempt  for  the  slipshod  violence  of 


102  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Fleet  Street  was  not  mitigated  by  Oakleigh's  temperate  ex- 
position of  qualities  and  difficulties. 

"What  d'you  bet  I  couldn't  make  a  living  by  my  pen 
within  one  month?"  he  asked. 

"Come  and  try,"  Oakleigh  suggested.  "The  experience 
won't  do  you  any  harm.  I'll  start  you  right  at  the  bottom, 
and  you  can  see  how  high  you'll  rise.  I  don't  think  you'll 
do  much — quite  candidly.  There'll  be  too  much  gutter 
'cuteness,  too  many  superlatives,  altogether  too  much  racket 
and  hysteria.  God !  how  I  hated  it,  when  I  came  to  it  first ! 
When  I  wrote  leaders  like  the  old  weekly  essays  for  my 
tutor !" 

Hardly  knowing  whence  or  where  the  idea  had  come  to 
him,  Deryk  had  allowed  his  thoughts  to  wander  far  be- 
yond the  narrow  range  of  their  conversation. 

"You'll  pay  me,  of  course?"  he  stipulated.  "I'm  taking 
this  seriously." 

"Pay  you  and  sack  you,  if  you're  incompetent,"  Oakleigh 
returned  in  the  same  tone. 

"That's  a  bargain,"  said  Deryk,  and  they  wandered  out 
of  the  billiard-room  in  search  of  the  others. 

Deryk  sat  down  to  dinner  that  night  in  high  spirits.  Ad- 
venture, self-realisation  and  achievement  lay  within  his 
grasp.  When  the  cigars  were  brought  in,  he  moved  round 
to  Hatherly's  side  and  asked  whether  it  would  be  possible 
to  see  his  father  that  night.  Hatherly's  round,  kindly  face 
clouded,  and  he  shook  his  head  with  the  sub  judice,  Rhada- 
manthine  air  of  the  morning;  for  the  first  time  Deryk  felt 
an  unkind  impatience  of  his  father's  unaccommodating 
ill-health,  and  he  found  difficulty  in  curbing  his  irritability, 
when  Yolande  came  up  to  him  in  the  drawing-room  and 
asked  the  result  of  his  interview. 

"Oh,  you  were  so  bubbling  over  at  dinner  that  I  thought 
you  must  have  talked  him  round,"  she  said  with  disap- 
pointment. 

"You  think  he'll  need  talking  round?"  asked  Deryk. 

Yolande  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"He's  your  father,  you  know  him  best.     But  it  doesn't 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE         103 

make  any  difference  one  way  or  the  other.  Deryk  dear, 
let  me  say  one  thing,  and  then  I'll  hereafter  hold  my  peace. 
If  you're  in  love  with  her,  it  doesn't  matter  what  Sir 
Aylmer  does ;  because,  if  you've  the  pride  of  a  snail,  you'll 
snap  your  fingers  at  him  and  go  your  own  way.  It's  a 
question  of  pride,  as  I  told  you  before." 

Deryk  smiled  at  her  flushed  face  and  eager  manner. 

"You're  qualifying  for  a  matrimonial  agent,"  he  said. 

"You  great  gaby!"  Her  grey  eyes  suddenly  softened. 
"Don't  you  understand  that  I  want  to  see  you  happy, 
Deryk?  I'm  very  fond  of  you  and  I've  always  felt  that  it 
would  be  next  to  impossible  for  any  boy  with  all  yout 
money  to  know  the  least  happiness  in  life.  Do  say  you've 
got  the  pride  of  a  snail !" 

"I  hope  I  have,"  he  laughed;  and  they  parted,  as  Sum- 
mertown  approached  to  claim  a  victim  for  his  bridge  table. 

All  but  Deryk  were  tired  early  that  night,  and  the  party 
broke  up  at  eleven.  The  fever  that  had  been  in  his  blood 
all  day  was  not  yet  spent,  however,  and  he  paced  up  and 
down  the  library  after  the  others  had  gone  to  bed,  restlessly 
unable  to  still  his  nerves. 

Since  four  that  morning  he  had  not  seen  Idina  and  he 
hungered  for  the  sound  of  her  voice.  He  could  not  tire 
himself  by  cutting  the  leaves  of  new  books  or  finding  places 
for  them  on  the  crowded  shelves ;  as  he  sat  restlessly  by  the 
fire,  as  he  slowly  mounted  the  library  ladder,  his  thoughts 
raced  back  to  the  moment  when  he  saw  her  face,  white  in 
the  moonlight  and  with  lids  drowsily  lowered  over  dark 
blue  eyes,  drawing  nearer  to  him  until  their  lips  met ; 
he  could  feel  his  cheeks  tingling  at  the  memory  of  her  head 
pressing  on  his  shoulder  and  her  cool,  white  arms  clasping 
round  his  neck.  It  was  incomprehensible  that  he  should 
want  anything,  anyone  so  much  as  he  wanted  her.  .  .  . 
Throwing  down  the  books,  he  paced  the  library  again  and 
again;  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  he  flung  open  one  of 
the  long  windows  and  climbed  out,  but  the  clatter  of  his 
feet  on  the  gravel  frightened  him ;  in  the  distance  he  could 
hear  the  night  watchman  talking  to  a  gardener  who  had 


I04  MIDAS  AND  SON 

been  stoking  the  hot-house  furnaces;  in  the  stable-yard  a 
dog  yawned,  bayed  half-heartedly  at  the  moon  and  yawned 
again. 

Climbing  back,  he  closed  the  window,  turned  out  the 
light  and  walked  on  tiptoe  to  the  secretary's  office.  There 
was  a  sound,  half  moan,  half  snore,  as  he  passed  his  fa- 
ther's bedroom;  but  it  was  not  repeated,  and,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  he  crept  on.  Within  the  office  the  door  be- 
tween bedroom  and  sitting-room  was  open ;  he  stood  with 
his  fingers  on  the  handle  until  Phillimore's  heavy  breath- 
ing, temporarily  syncopated,  had  recovered  its  regularity 
and  repose,  then  guided  himself  by  the  dying  firelight  to  the 
telephone  switchboard.  The  little  holes,  the  rubber  tubes 
ending  in  plugs  perplexed  him;  but  in  time  he  found  his 
own  extension  and  connected  it  with  the  outgoing  line. 
Then,  noiselessly  closing  the  door,  he  tiptoed  down  the 
passage  and  hurried  upstairs  to  his  own  room. 

For  many  moments  after  his  call  he  could  get  no  an- 
swer.   Then  a  startled  voice  said,  "Yes?    Hullo?    Yes?" 

Deryk  laughed  softly  and  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper. 

"Darling!     I  only  rang  up  to  say  good-night." 

Over  the  wire  he  fancied  a  catch  in  the  voice  and  heard  a 
little  sigh  of  relief. 

"Oh,  Deryk !    I  couldn't  think  who  it  was !" 

"I  wanted  to  know  how  you  were  and  what  you  were 
doing.     Were  you  asleep?" 

"I  was  in  bed,  but  I  wasn't  asleep.  Can't  you  sleep, 
either?" 

"No.  I  ought  to  be  tired  out,  but  I  can't  settle  down  till 
you  say  good-night.     Say  'good-night'  to  me,  Dina." 

"Good-night." 

He  waited  and  then  broke  out  in  disgust. 

"That's  not  the  way  to  say  good-night !" 

"Good-night,— Deryk." 

"No  good." 

"Good-night — dear." 

Sitting  half-undressed  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  Deryk 


J 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE         105 

found  his  feet  swinging  backwards  and  forwards  with  ir- 
ritable impatience. 

"I  shall  ring  off,  if  you  go  on  like  this,"  he  threatened. 

The  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  of  welling  tenderness. 

"Don't  bully  me,  sweetheart.  Good-night,  my  darling, 
darling  boy." 

There  was  a  distant  click,  and  the  wire  became  dead. 
Deryk  smiled  and  finished  his  undressing. 

The  following  day  the  house-party  began  to  disperse. 
Manisty  was  the  first  to  go,  and  he  spent  a  large  part  of 
the  morning  with  his  host  and  Raymond  Stornaway,  dis- 
cussing the  details  of  the  help  which  he  required  in  his 
work.  Sir  Aylmer,  as  ever,  put  a  number  of  slow  questions 
and  then  sat  silent:  after  due  reflection  he  stated  the  terms 
of  what  he  was  prepared  to  do  and  sat  back  with  closed 
eyes  to  signify  that  nothing  more  remained  to  be  said;  his 
mind  was  wiped  clean  as  a  slate  from  the  moment  that  his 
draft  scheme  was  put  in  black  and  white.  After  hearing 
Manisty  at  length  and  patiently,  he  had  offered  to  endow  a 
chair  of  archseolog}^  to  be  administered  by  trustees,  but 
with  the  first  appointment  left  in  his  own  hands.  Manisty, 
like  every  other  applicant  for  funds,  began  to  stammer 
a  comment,  but  Raymond  silenced  him  and  accepted  the 
proposal  on  behalf  of  both.  As  the  door  closed  behind 
them.  Sir  Aylmer  rang  his  table-bell  and  sent  for  his  son. 
Deryk  came  in  with  a  quickly  beating  heart  and  a  sense 
that  his  nervous  valour  of  yesterday  was  none  the  better 
for  keeping.  He  hated  these  wrangles  with  his  father,  but 
on  certain  points  there  was  no  room  for  yielding  or  com- 
promise. He  was  five  and  twenty,  as  well  entitled  as  any- 
one of  the  same  age  to  fashion  his  own  life :  wherein  was 
six  and  twenty,  eight  and  twenty,  thirty  a  mysteriously 
more  responsible  time  of  life? 

Sir  Aylmer  was  at  his  table  with  a  foolscap  sheet  of 
scribbled  figures  and  notes  before  him.  He  continued  writ- 
ing for  some  moments,  while  Deryk  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  keeping  his  courage  up  to  fighting  point.  The 
opening  of  the  interview  reminded  him  of  similar  meetings 


io6  MIDAS  AND  SON 

at  school,  when  his  tutor  invariably  ignored  the  presence  of 
a  malefactor  and  went  on  with  his  correspondence  until  an 
advantageous  atmosphere  of  suspense  had  been  created. 

"You  said  the  other  day  that  you  wanted  to  go  out  with 
Manisty  on  his  next  trip  to  Hellenopolis,"  began  Sir  Aylmer. 
"You  haven't  been  home  very  long,  and  it's  not  very  con- 
venient for  me,  but  you  seemed  anxious  to  go.  You're  still 
of  the  same  mind?" 

Deryk  considered  quickly.  Excavation,  Manisty  and  Asia 
Minor  had  ebbed  out  of  his  mind  from  the  moment  when 
he  mentioned  Hellenopolis  to  Idina  in  the  gun-room.  His 
father's  opening  found  him  unprepared ;  he  felt  that  it  was 
not  quite  fair. 

"You're  still  of  the  same  mind?"  Sir  Aylmer  repeated, 
looking  up  at  him  for  the  first  time. 

Over-riding  every  other  thought,  Deryk  recognised  that 
he  must  at  least  know  his  own  mind. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  without  further  hesitation. 

Sir  Aylmer  nodded. 

"Ive  been  talking  to  Manisty  this  morning,  and  he  said 
he's  willing  to  take  you.  He  starts  in  a  month's  time,  as 
soon  as  his  lectures  at  Liverpool  are  finished,  and  he'll  be 
away  till  the  early  autumn.  When  you  come  back,  I  shall 
have  to  keep  you  very  hard  at  work  on  family  business. 
Hatherly  will  take  you  over  to  New  York  in  the  autumn; 
while  you're  down  here,  he  and  I  will  explain  the  busi- 
ness from  this  end.  If  you  can  find  Hatherly,  kindly  tell 
him  that  I  want  to  see  him." 

Deryk  stood  breathless  as  though  his  father  had  hit  him 
in  the  wind.  His  life  was  neatly  mapped  out  for  a  twelve- 
month :  by  design  or  coincidence  he  was  throughout  that 
time  to  be  kept  under  observation  and  away  from  Ivy  Cot- 
tage. Of  his  eloquent  defiance  he  had  not  found  the  op- 
portunity to  speak  one  word ;  of  the  heroic  schemes  and 
scenes  imagined  in  the  last  thirty-six  hours  he  was  not  to 
have  the  occasion  of  putting  one  into  execution.  Accept- 
ing battle  on  his  adversary's  ground,  Sir  Aylmer  had  quietly 
cut  it  from  under  his  feet.     And  this  was  the  man  whom 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE         107 

he  had  so  triumphantly  vanquished  in  the  contest  over  Idi- 
na's  invitation;  the  man  whom  he  was  to  defy  and  over- 
whelm in  the  greater  contest  over  his  future  liberty  of  ac- 
tion; he  was  being  packed  out  of  the  country — at  his  own 
premature  request. 

"Hats  is  in  his  own  room,"  said  Deryk.  Refusing  to  ca- 
pitulate and  to  be  ordered  here  and  there  without  the  sem- 
blance of  opposition,  he  picked  up  the  telephone  from  his 
father's  table.  "Mr.  Hatherly,  please.  Hullo !  that  you, 
Hats?    I  say,  can  you  come  and  see  the  guv'nor?" 

Sir  Aylmer  looked  up  from  his  writing,  as  Hatherly  came 
into  the  room. 

"You're  rather  deserting  our  guests,  aren't  you,  Deryk?" 
he  suggested  pointedly. 

"Oh,  they'll  be  getting  ready  for  lunch,"  Deryk  an- 
swered, looking  at  the  clock.  "I  say,  dad,  while  we're  dis- 
cussing our  future  arrangements,  I  should  just  like  to  say 
something  about  the  money  question " 

Sir  Aylmer  interrupted  him  with  a  quick  shake  of  the 
head. 

"That's  all  settled,"  he  said.  "Manisty  will  act  as  banker 
for  you.  And,  when  you  go  to  America  in  the  autumn, 
Hatherly  will,  of  course,  pay  for  ever)i;hing." 

"But  that  means  I  have  nothing  of  my  own." 

Sir  Aylmer  turned  to  him  with  an  expression  of  bland 
surprise. 

"But  it's  all  your  own.  You  never  went  short  of  anything 
the  last  two  years,  did  you?" 

He  turned  to  Hatherly  with  a  smile,  and  Hatherly,  too, 
smiled  and  shook  his  head.  Deryk  had  a  despairing  sense 
of  powerlessness.  The  two  men  were  so  old  and  unsym- 
pathetic ;  they  were  so  cunning,  too.  ...  It  seemed  to  have 
been  all  rehearsed. 

"I  never  had  a  penny  without  having  to  go  and  ask  for 
it,"  he  went  on  doggedly. 

"But  was  it  ever  refused?"  his  father  asked  with  a  dis- 
play of  mild  reason.  He  had  that  morning  examined  a 
batch  of  accounts,  including  the  bill  for  a  pearl  necklace. 


io8  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"No,  but  I  don't  want  to  ask  for  it  every  time.  I'm 
twenty-five,  dad,  and  1  think  I'm  to  be  trusted.  There's 
not  a  man  I  know  of  my  own  age  who  has  to  go  to  his 
father  every  time  he  wants  to  buy  a  paper." 

Sir  Aylmer  ignored  obvious  retorts  and  contented  himself 
with  turning  to  Hatherly. 

"How  much  shall  I  give  him,  Ted?"  he  asked.  Hatherly 
was  unable  to  answer  quickly  enough,  and  he  looked  at 
Deryk.  "How  much  do  you  need  ?  I  want  a  figure  to  cover 
your  clothes,  books  and  personal  expenses,  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Anything  out  of  the  ordinary,  like  this  trip  to  Hel- 
lenopolis,  I'll  pay  independently.  Will  five  hundred  a  year 
be  enough  as  long  as  you're  living  here  ?  If  you  take  rooms 
in  town,  of  course,  I  shall  have  to  make  it  more.  I  don't 
want  you  to  feel  that  you're  tied  to  my  apron  strings." 

Deryk  was  so  far  wanting  in  a  money-sense  that  he  found 
it  impossible  to  suggest  a  figure.  At  Oxford  he  had  been 
given  an  allowance  of  four  hundred  pounds  for  three  terms 
of  eight  weeks  each.  It  was  not  the  amount  of  the  sum  that 
mattered,  however,  but  the  conditions  attaching  to  it. 

"You  mean  an  allowance?"  he  asked  deliberately. 

"Yes." 

"But  that's  the  same  thing  as  at  present.  Instead  of  send- 
ing my  bills  in  to  you,  I  shall  pay  them  out  of  my  allow- 
ance ;  and,  if  you  don't  like  the  way  I'm  spending  the 
money,  you  can  stop  the  allowance." 

For  the  first  time  Sir  Aylmer  allowed  a  shadow  of  an- 
noyance to  cloud  his  face. 

"If  you're  going  to  put  the  money  to  proper  uses,  Deryk," 
he  said,  "you  know  that  I  shan't  arbitrarily  stop  it;  if 
you're  going  to  put  it  to  improper  uses,  you  can  hardly 
expect  me  to  encourage  it  very  actively." 

"But  I  want  to  be  the  judge!"  Deryk  cried.  "You're 
simply  treating  me  like  a  child !  How  much  longer  have 
I  got  to  go  on  like  this  ?" 

Sir  Aylmer  looked  at  him  with  exasperating  patience  and 
then  beckoned  to  Hatherly. 

"You  must  explain  to  Deryk — apparently  he's  incapable 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE         109 

of  seeing  it  for  himself — that  I  am  not  in  a  condition  to 
stand  all  this  argument,"  he  said.  "I  really  don't  know 
what's  come  over  him.  You  can  tell  him,  however,  that  I 
have  spoken  my  last  word  on  this  subject.  He  can  take 
the  allowance,  or  he  can  go  on  as  he's  doing  at  present; 
if  he  takes  it,  I'll  pay  the  first  quarter's  cheque  into  his 
bank  to-day.  But  he  must  understand  that  I've  seen  so 
many  young  men  victimised  for  their  money  that  anything 
I  leave  will  be  administered  by  trustees  until  he's  thirty. 
And  he  must  understand  that  I  decline  to  have  this  discus- 
sion re-opened." 

Hatherly  walked  to  the  fire  like  a  well-disciplined  execu- 
tioner and  took  the  boy  by  the  arm.  There  was  a  moment's 
impulse  to  struggle,  but  Deryk  realised  in  time  that  nothing 
was  to  be  gained  by  growing  noisy  and  indignant  with  two 
men  who  declined  to  pursue  the  argument.  He  allowed 
himself  to  be  led  away  and,  in  his  bewilderment,  to  be  lec- 
tured by  Hatherly. 

"If  you  want  to  kill  your  father,  you're  going  the  right 
way  about  it,"  he  began  sternly.  Then  he  handed  on  Sir 
Aylmer's  last  words.  At  "thirty"  Deryk  gasped.  The  next 
years  of  his  life — all  his  life,  for  anything  that  he  knew  to 
the  contrary — had  been  neatly  arranged  and  pigeon-holed. 
His  father  was  treating  him  like  a  university  endowment ;  he 
was  ever  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  a  man  too  old  to  remember 
his  own  youth  and  surrounded  by  other  old  men  whom  he 
had  broken  to  his  will.  .  .  . 

He  jumped  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window  to  the 
sweeping  drive  and  the  copses  of  rhododendrons  glistening 
in  the  rain. 

"I've  had  about  as  much  of  this  as  I  can  stand,"  he  re- 
marked between  his  teeth. 

Hatherly  started  involuntarily.  Similar  words,  uttered 
in  a  similar  tone,  had  been  spoken  by  Sir  Aylmer,  when 
the  two  were  young  men  together.  Deryk's  attitude  was 
the  attitude  of  his  father,  as  he  looked  out  over  the  wet 
roofs  of  Lincoln's  Inn  with  hot,  angry  eyes. 


no  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Now  do  look  at  the  thing  sensibly!"  he  implored  with 
a  sudden,  cajoling  softness  of  voice. 

But  Deryk  had  flung  away  towards  the  dining-room. 
Hatherly  waited  until  he  was  out  of  sight  and  then  hurried 
back  to  Sir  Aylmer. 


At  intervals  throughout  the  afternoon  Deryk  was  to  be 
found  in  the  hall,  speeding  successive  units  of  the  house- 
party  on  their  scattered  ways ;  and  by  tea-time  the  only 
survivors  were  George  Oakleigh  and  his  sister,  who  were 
motoring  over  to  Crowley  Court  in  time  to  dine  with  the 
Daintons.  As  the  last  car  came  to  the  door,  Deryk  led 
Oakleigh  aside  and  pressed  a  final  cigar  upon  him. 

"I  was  in  dead  earnest  about  what  we  were  saying  yes- 
terday," he  began  with  assumed  truculence.  "I've  never 
made  a  penny  in  my  life,  and  you  think  I  can't.  Well,  we 
shall  see.  I'm  coming  to  you  on  Monday  morning  as  a 
stranger,  to  tell  you  my  qualifications  and  see  what  I  can 
do.    I  want  you  to  treat  me— just  like  anyone  else," 

Oakleigh  smiled  to  himself,  as  he  buttoned  his  coat  and 
lit  the  cigar. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  keep  on  the  experiment?" 
he  asked. 

"If  I'm  any  good  at  all,  I  shall  go  on  for  some  time.  If 
at  the  end  of  a  month  I  see  no  prospect  of  keeping  my  head 
above  water,  I  shall  turn  the  thing  down  and  confess  my- 
self beaten." 

From  his  combative  manner  and  nervously  emphatic 
speech  Deryk  might  have  been  gravely  affronted,  and  his 
companion  sought  to  modify  any  early  disparagement  of 
his  powers. 

"A  month's  not  long,"  he  suggested  reasonably.  "You've 
got  no  stock-in-trade,  remember;  no  articles  or  sketches 
up  your  sleeve ;  nothing  to  shew  me.  I  shall  have  to  set 
you  jobs  and  see  how  you  do  them.  I  don't  mind,  of 
course,  but  it's  a  hand-to-mouth  existence  for  you."  He 
derived   a  melancholy  amusement   from  contemplation  of 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE        iii 

the  experiment  and  of  Deryk's  coming  disillusionment  when 
he  contrasted  modern  Fleet  Street  with  his  present  ideal- 
ised, Lucien  de  Rubempre  conception  of  it.  "What  does  Sir 
Aylmer  think  of  the  idea?"  he  asked. 

"I  haven't  told  him,"  said  Deryk  shortly.  "This  is  sim- 
ply for  my  private  satisfaction.  The  guv'nor  went  out  when 
he  wasn't  much  older  than  I  am,  half  the  men  I  know  at 
Oxford  have  gone  out,  one  way  or  another.  I  want  to  see 
if  I'm  as  good  a  man  as  they  are." 

"Then  you  don't  want  it  talked  about  ?" 

"I  should  think  not !"  Deryk  exclaimed.  "If  I  make 
good,  I  expect  I  shall  be  quick  enough  to  talk  about  it.  But 
I  don't  want  congenital  idiots  like  Summertown  or  Degan- 
way  coming  and  being  funny;  and  I  don't  want  the  half- 
penny press  talking  about  'Millionaire's  Son  Taking  His 
Coat  Off.'  I'm  not  telling — even  the  guv'nor,  and  you'll 
be  helping  me  if  you  give  me  an  excuse  ifor  coming  to  Lon- 
don at  all.  Tell  him  I'm  bursting  to  hear  all  about  your 
propaganda;  one  lie's  as  good  as  another." 

Oakleigh  considered  the  proposal  in  silence.  He  knew 
Deryk  so  little  that  he  had  no  standard  for  judging  his 
eccentricities ;  but  the  little  conspiracy  seemed  innocent 
enough,  and  the  boy's  eager,  staccato  speech  and  flashing 
eyes  would  have  made  anyone  anxious  not  to  disappoint 
him. 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,"  he  promised  at  length.  "Now  I 
must  go  and  say  good-bye  to  your  father." 

The  proposal  met  with  so  little  opposition  that  Deryk's 
surface  suspicions  were  roused,  and  he  told  himself  sar- 
donically that  his  father  was  welcoming  any  opportunity 
of  putting  forty-five  miles  between  Ivy  Cottage  and  him- 
self. After  a  silent  and  aggrieved  dinner,  he  locked  him- 
self in  his  bedroom,  packed  an  ample  supply  of  clothes  and 
investigated  the  state  of  his  finances.  There  was  rather 
more  than  two  hundred  pounds  at  the  bank,  and  this  he  was 
prepared  to  borrow  from  himself  and  pay  back,  as  he  be- 
gan to  make  good.  But  it  was  not  his  money,  and  he  re- 
fused to  regard  it  as  anything  but  a  loan ;  when  Sir  Aylmer 


112  MIDAS  AND  SON 

put  a  question  at  dinner  how  the  first  quarter's  allowance 
was  to  be  paid,  Deryk  replied  loftily  that  this  was  a  matter 
of  indifference  to  him;  if  he  could  not  have  an  independ- 
ent income,  he  desired  no  change  in  the  old  system  of  pay- 
ment. Hatherly's  round,  benevolent  face  became  charged 
with  trouble,  and  he  forcibly  changed  the  subject  by  asking 
how  long  Deryk  expected  to  be  in  London ;  no  definite  date 
could  be  given,  however;  and  letters  had  best  be  sent  to 
the  County  Club.  .  .  . 

"Was  he  like  this  when  you  were  abroad?"  Sir  Aylmer 
asked  in  tired  perplexity,  when  he  was  alone  with  Hatherly 
after  dinner. 

The  morning's  conversation  with  Deryk,  the  sudden,  re- 
bellious look,  the  nervous  outburst  of  defiance  that  seemed 
to  identify  son  and  father  across  the  abyss  of  a  generation 
occupied  Hatherly's  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  everything 
else. 

"I'm  not  comfortable  about  him,  Aylmer,"  he  said 
gravely.  "There's  going  to  be  trouble,  if  you  don't  give 
him  his  head." 

For  a  moment  Sir  Aylmer's  lack-lustre  eyes  and  lined 
face  became  almost  youthful  and  combative. 

"If  you  mean,  by  giving  him  his  head "  he  began  with 

a  low,  explosive  rumble. 

"I  don't  mean  anything,"  Hatherly  interrupted.  "I 
haven't  in  the  least  thought  it  out.  Rightly  or  wrongly 
Deryk  feels  that  he's  reached  a  breaking-point,  and,  if  you 
don't  clear  his  mind  of  that  feeling,  there'll  be  trouble." 

Sir  Aylmer  leaned  receptively  back  in  his  chair  with  ex- 
pectant patience. 

"What  can  he  do?"  he  asked,  as  Hatherly  continued  si- 
lent. 

"What  did  you  do  at  pretty  much  his  age?"  was  the 
answer. 

For  some  time  Sir  Aylmer,  too,  was  silent ;  then  his  face 
cleared. 

"If  Deryk  shewed  me  that  he  meant  business,  if  he's 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE         113 

prepared  to  work  out  his  own  salvation,"  he  begun  delib- 
erately, 

"You  appreciate  the  price?"  Hatherly  asked  drily. 
"You'd  never  see  him  again, — whether  he  succeeded  or 
failed.  Don't  make  any  mistake  about  that,  Aylmer.  You 
won't  appreciate  that  he's  growing  up  and  you  won't  recog- 
nise how  much  of  your  own  old  Adam  you've  handed  on 
to  that  boy." 

Sir  Aylmer  beckoned  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  and  allowed 
hiniself  to  be  helped  to  his  feet. 

"Let's  hope  he  comes  back  from  town  in  a  more  reason- 
able temper,"  was  all  that  he  would  say. 

From  nine  o'clock  until  midnight  Deryk  wandered  dis- 
piritedly from  one  room  of  the  house  to  another.  After  the 
excitement  of  the  last  days  his  mind  had  gone  flat,  and  he 
yearned  for  a  little  sympathy.  The  distant  sight  of  his 
father,  laboriously  wheeling  himself  across  the  hall  from 
the  dining-room,  made  him  want  to  run  and  confess,  to 
explain  things  and  await  the  kindly-humorous  judgment 
that  other  fellows  seemed  to  get  from  their  fathers.  The 
guv'nor  had  grown  so  unapproachable  in  recent  years ;  he 
seemed  so  old,  so  uncommunicative,  so  much  wrapped  up  in 
his  own  ill-health.  In  spite  of  it  all,  perhaps  because  of 
it  all — the  satanic  pride,  the  masterful  will,  the  unexplaining 
habit  of  authority — Deryk  was  reluctant  and  almost  afraid 
to  engage  him;  there  was  no  great  satisfaction  in  defeating 
your  own  father.  ...  If  only  he  would  see.  .  .  .  For  all 
its  ungainly  size  and  awesome  silence,  Der}'k  did  not  want 
to  say  good-bye  to  Ripley  Court;  the  orderly,  comfortable 
routine,  which  made  life  so  effortless  and  void  of  small 
worry ;  the  paternal  friendliness  of  Phillimore  and  the  old 
servants,  who  still  called  him  "Master  Deryk"  and  treated 
him  like  a  schoolboy;  the  solicitude  of  Mrs  Benson,  who 
felt  dishonoured  when  he  missed  a  course  and  always  pro- 
vided a  bonibe  a  la  Nesselrode  for  dinner  on  the  night  of  his 
return  home.  .  .  .  And  he  had  found  no  time  to  enjoy  it; 
two-thirds  of  the  books  were  not  yet  unpacked,  and  he  had 
been  thinking  of  the  library  all  the  time  he  had  been  abroad. 


114  MIDAS  AND  SON 

In  Celebes  a  letter  from  his  father  told  him  that  the  new 
organ  had  now  been  installed  in  the  chapel;  he  had  been 
too  busy  to  try  it,  he  had  not  been  inside  the  chapel,  he  had 
been  nowhere,  he  had  done  nothing.  .  .  . 

Worn  out  with  the  excitement  of  the  last  three  days,  he 
was  beginning  to  undress,  when  Hatherly  strolled  in  behind 
the  pretext  of  finishing  his  cigar  in  company.  Deryk  found 
him  almost  exasperatingly  bland,  non-committal,  diplomatic 
•■ — "enjoy  yourself  in  London — the  guv'nor  says  you  mustn't 
miss  this  opportunity  of  buying  your  kit  for  Hellenopolis — 
send  him  a  line  from  time  to  time  to  say  how  you're  getting 
on — "  The  Hatherly  skin  contained  at  least  three  Hather- 
lys,  one  a  friend  almost  of  his  own  age,  rather  steadier 
and  sobered  by  life,  but  eminently  sympathetic ;  there  was 
also  an  old  man  who  became  cowed,  submissive,  unsympa- 
thetic, repellent,  whenever  he  met  Sir  Aylmer,  speaking  in 
whispers  and  falling  into  his  allotted  place  in  the  line  of 
Bensons  and  Phillimores  who  had  grown  prematurely  old 
out  of  compliment  to  Ripley  Court  and  its  master.  And 
there  was  this  intermediate  Hatherly  who  flitted  like  a  high- 
ly-strung ambassador  between  library  and  study  whenever 
the  air  grew  electric  .  .  .  and  satisfied  no  one.  They  knew 
that  something  was  wrong,  but  they  tried  to  distract  his  at- 
tention, as  though  he  were  a  child  with  a  cut  knee.  Faith- 
healing  was  no  good  for  a  fracture ;  he  was  not  to  be  whee- 
dled into  forgetting  Dina,  as  though  she  were  a  circus  that 
his  father  did  not  want  him  to  visit.  .  .  . 

He  woke  from  his  reverie  to  find  that  Hatherly  was  still 
speaking. 

"...  I  felt  that  the  sooner  you  appreciated  that  the  bet- 
ter," he  was  saying. 

"I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  listening,"  said  Deryk  unapologeti- 
cally,  as  he  tossed  his  clothes  into  an  armchair. 

"I  was  telling  you  that  you  were  upsetting  the  guv'nor 
very  badly,"  Hatherly  repeated,  and  Deryk  at  once  realised 
the  atmosphere  which  was  being  imported :  it  was  always 
"your  father"  when  there  was  a  rebuke  to  be  administered, 
"the  guv'nor"  when  the  conciliation  tap  was  being  turned  on. 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE        115 

"And  I  warn  you  frankly  that  he's  not  in  a  state  to  stand 
extra  worry;  we've  kept  him  alive  in  defiance  of  probability 
for  a  good  many  years,  but  he's  a  cracked  pitcher."  Deryk 
jumped  into  bed  and  picked  up  a  book  from  the  table  at  his 
side,  but  Hatherly  took  it  gently  away  before  he  could  be- 
gin to  read  it.  "What's  the  matter,  old  man  ?"  he  asked  in  a 
voice  that  he  had  used  to  overcome  the  shyness  and  an- 
tagonism of  sixteen  years  before.  "I  feel  that  we  haven't 
got  to  the  bottom  of  things." 

The  sudden,  familiar  kindliness  of  manner  made  Deryk 
cover  his  face  as  though  the  light  were  hurting  his  eyes.  He 
hated  to  worry  old  Hats,  but  he  could  not  stand  having  his 
father's  death-warrant  eternally  fluttered  in  his  face. 

"I  don't  think  the  guv'nor's  treating  me  fairly,"  he  burst 
out  petulantly.     "Every  man  I  know " 

"D'you  know  a  single  one  a  tithe  as  rich  as  your  father?" 
Hatherly  interrupted.  "You're  going  to  find  out  before  you 
die  that  there  are  precious  few  things  that  people  won't  do 
for  a  sufficiently  large  money  prize — young  boys  marrying 
old  women,  young  girls  selling  themselves  to  old  men,  ly- 
ing, cheating,  corruption.  People  who  wouldn't  kill  one 
man  to  steal  his  purse  will  engineer  a  war  and  kill  thou- 
sands on  either  side  for  a  beggarly  diamond  mine.  Well, 
old  man,  as  long  as  you're  only  a  beneficiary,  you're  safe- 
guarded from  a  good  deal;  when  the  money's  your  own, 
you'll  be  far  more  vulnerable."  He  took  out  his  case  and 
lit  a  cigarette  from  the  stump  of  his  cigar.  "This  isn't 
an  idea  of  yesterday,  your  father's  not  trying  to  score  off 
you  in  any  way,"  he  went  on  in  a  manner  that  brought  the 
discussion  closer  to  actuality  than  ever  before.  "We  ar- 
gued it  out  before  you  were  born.  Your  father  came  to 
England  and  told  me  that  your  mother  would  soon  have  a 
child;  I  well  remember,  though  I  don't  think  it  had  ever 
occurred  to  him  before,  how  terribly  frightened  he  was  to 
think  what  might  happen,  if  the  child  came  in  for  all  his 
money  before  it  was  old  enough  to  look  after  itself.  Or 
your  mother,  for  that  matter.  We  set  up  an  elaborate 
trust — I'll  explain  it  all  to  you,  when  you  get  back  here — 


ii6  MIDAS  AND  SON 

to  secure  that,  if  your  father  died,  your  mother  should 
be  reasonably  protected  from  men  who  wanted  to  marry 
her  for  her  money.  And  we  included  you,  as  your  father 
told  you  this  morning,  by  arranging  for  the  money  to  be 
administered  by  trustees  until  you  were  thirty.  After  that, 
if  you're  going  to  the  devil,  you'll  go ;  until  then — I'll  put 
it  quite  plainly— you'll  have  to  get  the  assent  of  your 
father  or  of  the  trustees  for  every  penny  you  want  to 
spend.  I  had  seen  my  share  of  rich  young  men  coming 
their  croppers  and  I  advised  him,  as  a  solicitor ;  if  you  think 
it's  an  unreasonable  scheme,  fight  me  about  it  by  all  means, 
don't  worry  the  pater.  But,  as  I'm  old  and  you're  young, 
before  you  fight  me,  just  consider  what  you'd  do,  if  you 
had  the  responsibility  of  leaving  about  twenty  million  sterl- 
ing to  your  son.  And  you  must  assume  that  you're  fond 
of  the  son,"  he  added  softly;  "you  must  assume  that  he's 
the  only  thing  in  the  world  that  you've  got  to  live  for  since 
your  wife  died." 

Deryk  lay  on  his  back,  staring  at  the  ceiling  and  telling 
himself  with  honourable  detachment  that  old  Hats  was 
having  the  best  of  this;  shortly  and  simply  he  had  raised 
the  level  of  the  discussion  and,  if  he  spoke  still  as  an  am- 
bassador, it  was  as  an  ambassador  who  wanted  to  help; 
was  little  of  the  diplomatic  skirmishing  which  had  preceded 
the  morning's  interview  with  his  father.  And,  as  they 
were  getting  to  grips,  surely  this  was  the  moment  for  a 
frank  question  about  Dina — was  the  opposition  imaginary, 
what  did  the  guv'nor  want?  Deryk  had  the  question  half- 
framed,  but  something  that  he  decided  must  be  instinct 
kept  him  silent;  it  was  not  chance  forgetfulness  that  had 
led  Sir  Aylmer  to  use  the  truth  so  economically,  and  it 
was  neither  oblivion  nor  toleration  which  made  so  in- 
veterate a  stickler  for  decorum  refrain  from  alluding  to 
an  incident  at  the  ball  which  had  set  every  other  tongue 
in  the  house  and  neighbourhood  wagging.  .  .  . 

"This  trust  thing  can't  be  upset,  I  suppose?"  Deryk 
asked. 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE        117 

"Only  by  your  father.  Of  course,  he  can  modify  it  at 
will  or  tear  it  up." 

"Then,  if  he  Hked,  he  could  take  so  much  money  out  of 
trust  and  settle  it  on  me?  He  could  give  me,  say,  five 
hundred  or  a  thousand  a  year  absolutely  of  my  own  and 
leave  all  the  rest  locked  up?" 

Hatherly  nodded. 

"Undoubtedly.     I'm  quite  sure  he  won't,  though." 

"But,  if  anyone's  going  to  marry  me  for  my  money, 
they'll  run  the  risk  and  marry  me  for  my  expectations. 
I  mean,  any  money-lender.  .  .  .  And  you  can't  go  to  the 
devil  very  much  on  five  hundred.  Why  don't  you  suggest 
that  to  the  guv'nor?" 

"Because  he's  impossible  to  move,  and,  if  he  could  be 
moved,  I  don't  think  it  would  be  reasonable  to  try.  He's 
never  refused  you  money  when  you've  asked  for  it,  and, 
if  you  take  a  sudden  dislike  to  asking  for  it,  the  natural 
inference  is  that  you're  busy  about  something  that  he  won't 
approve  of."  Hatherly  stopped  abruptly,  as  though  he 
were  giving  Deryk  a  considered  opportunity  for  confes- 
sion. "As  for  marrying  on  expectations,"  he  resumed 
slowly  and  disappointedly,  "you'd  better  send  any  pro- 
spective brides  for  a  short  talk  with  me  before  they  take 
the  plunge ;  the  powers  of  the  trustees  are  left  very  wide." 

Throwing  away  his  cigarette,  he  got  up  to  go,  feeling, 
as  many  have  felt  before  and  since,  that  he  would  have 
done  better  to  go  five  minutes  earlier.  Deryk  had  re- 
verted to  his  grievance,  and  he  was  himself  using  the 
language  of  menace  which  he  deplored  in  Sir  Aylmer. 

"I  suppose  different  generations  can't  be  expected  to  see 
a  thing  with  the  same  eyes,"  he  said,  coming  back  to  the 
bedside  to  lay  a  hand  on  Deryk's  shoulder  and  leave  a  less 
unsympathetic  impression  behind  him.  "But  I  should  like 
you  to  think  what  you'll  do  with  your  sons ;  and  I  do  want 
you  to  remember  that  we  have  only  one  father  in  this  world. 
Good-night,  old  man." 

Deryk  lay  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  staring  resignedly  at 
the   ceiling;   everybody  was   so   exasperatingly  reasonable 


ii8  MIDA5  AND  SON 

that  he  longed  for  an  arbitrator  to  advise  him ;  he  could  see 
their  points,  but  they  wouldn't  see  his;  he  would  like,  say, 
Raymond  to  hold  the  scales,  arrive  at  the  truth,  impose 
his  findings  on  both  sides  .  .  .  But  if  Raymond  decided 
against  him  ?  That  was  the  trouble ;  neither  he  nor  his 
father  would  abide  by  the  decision,  if  it  went  the  wrong 
way.  It  was  almost  the  one  thing  they  had  in  common. 
And  he  did  not  propose  to  go  about  like  Panurge,  asking 
advice  whether  to  marry,  yea  or  nay.  One  had  one's 
pride ;  one  preferred  not  to  discuss  this  sort  of  thing  even 
with  people  like  dear,  well-intentioned  Yolande.  .  .  .  And, 
by  the  way,  it  was  so  easy  for  her  to  talk  about  "the  pride 
of  a  snail"  and  what  she  would  do  and  what  she  had  done, 
but  Lord  Stornaway  was  indestructible  as  an  English  pub- 
lic building;  you  could  disagree  with  him  all  day  without 
killing  him ;  everybody  did,  and  he  thrived  on  it  .  .  . 

The  bell  by  his  bed  rang,  and  he  picked  up  the  receiver. 

"Hallo  ?" 

"Oh,  Deryk,  what  luck!  I  was  terrified  that  Mr.  Phil- 
limore  might  answer  it.     I  only  wanted  to  say  good-night." 

At  sound  of  her  voice  his  heart  seemed  to  leap. 

"Dina,  I've  been  longing  to  talk  to  you  all  day !  Are  you 
going  to  be  in  to-morrow  morning?  I  want  to  see  you 
and  I  simply  couldn't  get  away  while  the  house  was  full 
of  people." 

"I  shall  be  at  the  Grange  till  seven,"  Idina  answered. 
"I  have  to  lunch  there  on  Sundays  and  I'm  afraid  I  can't 
get  away  before." 

Deryk  smothered  an  expression  of  disappointment. 

"Then  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  see  you,"  he  said.  "I've  got  to 
go  up  to  town  in  the  afternoon  and  I  may  be  away  some 
time." 

"Oh,  Der>'k !" 

Her  plaintive  tone  touched  something  deep  down  in  him, 
rousing  a  new  passionate  desire  to  protect  her. 

"It  can't  be  helped,  darling,"  he  said.  "I  wish  I  could 
explain,  I'm  worried  nearly  off  my  head,  but  it's  no  good. 
I'd  tell  you  the  whole  thing,  if  I  could,  but  I  can't.     I 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE        119 

don't  know  how  long  I  shall  be  away  and  I  can't  tell  you 
why  I'm  going,  and  you  mustn't  try  to  find  out.  If  any- 
one asks  you  where  I  am,  it's  better  that  you  shouldn't 
know." 

Out  of  the  distance  her  voice  sounded  troubled  and  un- 
happy. 

"But  I  don't  understand,  dear!" 

"And  I  can't  explain,"  he  answered.  "Everything's 
damnable,  damnable,  damnable !  Some  day  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it,  but  I  can't  now.  I'll  try  to  write  to  you,  but 
you  mustn't  expect  anything  much.  You'll  write  to  me, 
won't  you?  Send  your  letters  to  the  County  Club,  St. 
James'  Square." 

There  was  a  long  silence.    Then  a  distressed  voice  said, 

"Deryk,  you  have  made  me  miserable !" 

His  nerves  were  so  much  overstrung  that  he  could  hardly 
control  his  voice. 

"Dina  darling!  don't  imagine  I'm  doing  this  for  the  fun 
of  the  thing!  I  tell  you,  I'm  nearly  out  of  my  mind.  If  I 
could  tell  you,  you'd  understand  at  once,  but  I  can't.  Say 
good-night  and  give  me  your  blessing.  God  knows  I  need 
it." 

"Good-night,  Deryk." 

He  laughed  in  despite  of  himself. 

"Properly  now,  Dina." 

"Good-night,  darling." 

"No !  Say  'Good-night,  darling ;  bless  you !'  " 

There  was  the  same  pause  as  before ;  the  voice  sank  to 
the  same  caressing  whisper. 

"Good-night,  darling,  darling!     Bless  you  always!" 

It  was  long  before  he  slept  that  night ;  and  in  the  morn- 
ing the  lids  of  his  eyes  were  red  and  tired,  and  his  nerves 
seemed  to  be  lacerated.  He  avoided  meeting  his  father 
or  Hatherly  until  luncheon,  and  then  the  conversation  was 
deliberately  turned  to  the  great  peace  propaganda  which 
George  Oakleigh  and  his  uncle  had  been  carrying  out  for 
three  or  four  years. 


120  MIDAS  AND  SON 

When  the  car  came  round  to  the  door  after  tea,  Peryk 
went  into  his  father's  study  to  say  good-bye. 

"Well,  I  don't  seem  to  have  seen  very  much  of  you  since 
you  came  back,"  said  Sir  Aylmer,  as  they  shook  hands. 
"Enjoy  yourself  in  town,  but  don't  be  away  too  long. 
Manisty  starts  in  a  month,  and  there's  a  lot  to  do  before 
that." 

"Yes, — if  I  go,"  said  Deryk. 

Sir  Aylmer  looked  at  him  closely. 

"But  we  arranged  all  that  yesterday,"  he  said;  and  then 
less  sharply,  "It  was  your  idea,  you  were  anxious  to  go." 

"I  may  change  my  mind;  I  don't  know."  Deryk  but- 
toned his  coat  slowly  and  began  to  draw  on  his  gloves. 
"Did  Hats  tell  you  that  we  had  a  talk  last  night?"  he 
asked. 

"He  mentioned  it.     I  cannot  re-open  the  discussion." 

Deryk  pursued  his  own  course  doggedly. 

"I'm  not  at  all  satisfied  with  the  way  things  were  left," 
he  said.     "I  made  a  suggestion  to  Hats " 

Sir  Aylmer  raised  a  hand  to  check  him. 

"I  heard  all  about  it,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  disposed  to 
make  any  alteration  in  the  trust." 

Deryk  shrugged  his  shoulders,  picked  up  his  hat  and 
umbrella  and  shook  hands  with  Hatherly.  Then  he  came 
back  and  stood  before  his  father. 

"You've  made  up  your  mind  to  that?"  he  asked.  "It's 
no  use  raising  the  question  again  ?    All  right,  I  won't." 

He  started  to  the  door,  but  Sir  Aylmer  called  him  back. 

"Let  me  know  when  I'm  to  expect  you  back  here,"  he 
said. 

"I  have  no  idea,"  Deryk  answered  slowly. 


CHAPTER   III 

A    QUESTION    OF    PRIDE 


She  had 
A  heart — how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made  glad. 
Too  easily  impressed;  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 
Sir,  'twas  all  one !     My  favour  at  her  breast, 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious   fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard   for  her.  the  white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 
Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — good !  but  thanked 
Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if   she  ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift. 

Robert  Browning:  My  Last  Duchess. 


Almost  before  he  left  Ripley  Court,  long  before  he 
reached  London,  Deryk  appreciated  that  henceforth  he 
would  never  know  the  ease  or  pleasure  of  being  undiplo- 
matic ;  he  had  his  part  to  play  now  with  everyone  that 
he  met,  he  was  playing  it  already — rather  well.  Thus  Sir 
Aylmer  really  believed  that  he  was  spending  half  a  week 
poring  over  the  files  of  some  ridiculous  propagandist  re- 
view ;  Idina  did  not  imagine,  cotdd  not  imagine  that  his 
sudden  departure  for  an  indefinite  time  and  an  unstated 
purpose  was  in  any  way  connected  with  her.  George 
Oakleigh  fancied,  tolerantly  enough,  that  he  was  indulg- 
ing a  very  young,  ver}'  rich  man's  romantic  foible  and  that 
he  did  not  want  it  advertised.  This  was  the  attitude  adop- 
ted at  "Peace"  office  in  Bouverie  Street  and  at  Prince's 
Gardens,  where  he  was  almost  immediately  taken  to  dine 

121 


122  MIDAS  AND  SON 

and   meet   Bertrand   Oakleigh.     He   was   amused   to   find 
himself  reckoned  a  serious  young  man,  experimenting  in 
life  and  seeing  it  from  all  angles,  though  the  amusement 
made  rapid  way  for  indignation  when  he  thought  of  the 
unnecessary    effort,    the    gratuitous    pain    and   the    squan- 
dered  energy   in   which   his    father's    folly   was    involving 
him.     This  iDusiness  of  seeing  whether  he  could  earn  his 
own  living  was  unwelcome  in  itself  and  made  doubly  un- 
welcome by  this  eternal  play-acting,  all  these  excuses,  pre- 
tences, half-truths  and  reservations.     On  his  first  night  in 
London  he  dined  at  the  County  Club,  though  he  well  knew 
that  he  could  not  afford  to  dine  there  habitually.    He  was 
hardly    seated    before     Deganway    fluttered    up,    curled, 
scented  and  immaculate  in  his  affected,  invertebrate  way, 
waving  an  eye-glass,  addressing  him  as  "my   dear"   and 
shrilly  demanding  news.    Deryk  was  not  at  ease  under  his 
friend's  fusillade  of  questions ;  he  refused  to  share  a  bottle 
of  wine,  he  was  vague  and  unconvincing  about  his  pres- 
ence  in   London  on  a   Sunday  night  and,   as  the  dinner 
proceeded,  he  had  to  tell  Deganway  that  he  was  asking 
too  many  questions  about  matters  which  really  were  not 
his  business.     Not  that  it  made  much  difference.  Heaven 
knew!     Deganway  was  silent  for  thirty  seconds,  then  he 
began   with   another   catechism,   and,   whether   he   got   an 
answer  or  not,  it  was  quite  certain  that  he  would  chatter 
his  way  round  London,  telling  everyone  what  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  treat  as  true,  not  the  truth  as  his  victims 
gave  it  him.     Without  a  trace  of  malice,  Deganway  was 
the  most  indiscreet,  the  most  inaccurate  and  one  of  the 
most  dangerous  men  in  London,  whose  influence  for  evil 
was  unaffected  by  the  number  of  times  on  which  he  was 
proved  to  be  wrong.     On  the  Monday  evening  Deryk  met 
Lady  Dainton  at  dinner  and  was  told  publicly  that  he  was 
engaged  to  be  married  and  that  Mr.  Deganway  had  said 
so;  he  spent  a  week  trying  to  overtake  the  story  and  in 
the  end  demanded  an  explanation  of  Deganway,  who  in- 
dignantly denied  having  told  Lady  Dainton  any  such  thing 
and  instantly  went  on  to  enquire  whether  Deryk  was  not 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  123 

in  fact  engaged,  as  he  only  wanted  to  get  hold  of  the 
right  end  of  the  stick.  .  .  . 

"When  I'm  engaged,  I  shall  have  the  announcement  put 
in  the  papers,"  Deryk  told  him. 

Deganway  looked  at  him  reproachfully  and  went  off  in 
search  of  Summertown,  who  knew  all  about  this  engage- 
ment and  had  known  all  about  it  for  days:  Aliss  Pen- 
rose was  a  companion  or  governess  or  something  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Ripley  Court — "quite  a  lady,  you  know, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing";  Lancing  was  rather  hard  hit 
about  her,  but  the  old  man  wouldn't  recognise  the  engage- 
ment. Here  Summertown's  grip  on  the  narrative  grew 
slack.  Obviously  the  old  man  had  refused  his  assent,  be- 
cause Deryk  was  in  London  with  a  set  face  and  uninvit- 
ing manner,  doing — God  knew  what.  .  .  .  Within  a  week 
Deryk  incautiously  allowed  himself  to  be  seen  in  the  li- 
brary of  the  Club  with  a  sheaf  of  proof  slips;  Deganway 
looked  at  him  with  round  eyes,  put  up  his  glass,  grimaced, 
murmured,  "My  dear!"  and  again  sought  out  Summer- 
town. 

In  the  meantime  George  Oakleigh  was  conscientiously 
putting  Deryk  through  his  paces  in  Bouverie  Street  and 
atoning  for  the  necessary  harshness  of  editorial  supervision 
by  loading  him  with  gifts  of  incidental  literary  and  musi- 
cal criticism.  It  was  weighting  the  scales  in  his  favour, 
but  Deryk's  face  and  nervous  manner  hinted  that  he 
needed  to  have  the  scales  weighted  in  his  own  favour. 
And,  if  the  initiative  had  not  come  from  him,  Yolande 
Stornaway  would  have  supplied  it.  She  met  Deryk  un- 
expectedly in  "Peace"  office  and  poured  out  her  usual 
stream  of  questions. 

"You've  really  had  it  out  with  your  father?"  she  en- 
quired breathlessly,  her  eager  little  face  radiant  with  hope. 
"And  this  is  the  result?  Good  old  Deryk!  I  didn't  know 
you'd  got  it  in  you." 

"I've  not  had  anything  out  with  my  father,"  he  an- 
swered cautiously.     "I  wanted  to  see " 


124  MIDAS  AND  SON 

He  left  the  explanation  unfinished  lest  he  should  explain 
too  much. 

"You  wanted  to  see  whether  you  were  strong  enough 
to  stand  up  to  him  ?  What  does  he  think  about  it  ?  What 
did  you  tell  him?    Deryk,  I'm  simply  bursting  to  know!" 

Deryk  laughed  in  spite  of  himself. 

"So  I  observe.  But  there's  nothing  to  tell.  Oakleigh 
and  I  had  a  talk  at  Ripley,  and  I  told  him  that  any  man 
of  decent  education  could  make  a  living  with  his  pen — 
he  was  crabbing  the  ordinary  public  school  type  of  educa- 
tion ;  he  told  me  to  come  and  see  if  it  was  as  easy  as  I 
thought.  So  I'm  here."  He  watched  a  look  of  incredulity 
come  into  her  eyes.     "Ask  him,  if  you  don't  believe  me." 

Yolande  pouted  impatiently. 

"I've  no  doubt  it's  all  true — so  far  as  it  goes.  .  .  .  But 
I  won't  make  a  nuisance  of  myself,  if  you  don't  want  to 
tell  me.  Good-bye,  Deryk;  unless  you'll  come  and  share 
hashed  mutton  in  my  flat?  I'm  in  Stafford's  Inn,  just  the 
other  side  of  Fleet  Street." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  he  accepted  the  invitation, 
knowing  well  that  he  would  tell  her  more  than  he  then 
intended,  but  hungry  for  the  sympathetic  society  of  a 
woman.  Yolande  led  the  way  proudly  up  three  flights  of 
creaking,  uncarpeted  stairs  to  a  tiny  set  of  rooms  over- 
looking the  Record  Office.  With  their  low  ceilings,  white- 
panelled  walls  and  green  window-boxes,  they  conveyed  a 
suggestion  of  an  Oxford  college;  but  the  decoration  and 
furniture  were  wholly  feminine.  While  she  tidied  herself 
for  dinner,  Deryk  examined  her  books  and  pictures ;  they 
were  sufficiently  "advanced"  and  unintelligible  to  impress 
him,  as,  for  the  same  reason,  they  had  impressed  her  uncle 
Raymond — with  her  astonishing  youth.  Everything  that 
was  modern,  rational  and  in  revolt  against  the  tyranny 
of  age  seemed  to  have  been  collected  into  her  incendiary 
shelves.  ...  At  dinner,  forgetful  of  her  promise,  she 
opened  a  new  fusillade  of  questions,  and,  before  he  left, 
he  had  told  her,  as  he  knew  he  would,  almost  everything 
that  she  wanted  to  know;  and,  being  unpledged  to  secrecy, 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  125, 

she  privately  reserved  the  right  of  discussing  at  least  a 
portion  of  his  scheme  with  her  friends.  Two  days  after 
their  meeting,  Deryk  was  invited  to  lunch  with  Manisty 
and  found  the  editor  of  the  "Quarterly  Journal  of  Archae- 
ology" at  the  same  table ;  and,  dining  later  with  Ray- 
mond in  Pont  Street,  he  was  introduced  to  Lord  Ilkley, 
who  in  turn  invited  him  to  lunch  at  Ilkley  House  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday  and  listen  to  a  jejune  suggestion  that  the 
marbles  which  the  third  Lord  Ilkley  had  stolen  from 
Athens  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  were 
perhaps  worth  arranging,  cataloguing,  photographing  and 
describing  by  a  man  who  knew  something  about  this  sort 
of  thing.  Deryk  spent  an  intoxicating  Sunday  in  the  great 
Georgian  house  on  Campden  Hill.  In  the  evening  he 
sought  out  Manisty  and  told  him  that  he  would  not  be  able 
to  accompany  him  to  Hellenopolis.  If  the  present  run 
continued  unbroken,  it  was  not  a  question  of  failure  and 
surrender  to  his  father;  he  had  to  solve  the  problem  of 
finding  physical  strength  and  a  day  long  enough  to  meet 
the  demands  of  his  work. 

"He's  shaping  quite  well,"  George  Oakleigh  told  Yo- 
lande,  when  they  met  a  few  days  later.  "Of  course,  it 
isn't  a  fair  test ;  he's  been  helped  as  only  people  of  his 
kind  are  helped;  with  just  as  good  qualifications,  another 
man  would  never  have  been  boosted  into  work  as  he's 
been,  but  I  haven't  the  heart  to  tell  him  so;  he's  obviously 
so  pleased  with  life.  And  he  does  hate  me  so,  when  I  cut 
the  epigrams  and  purple  patches  out  of  his  articles.  ,  .  . 
How  long's  he  going  on  with  the  job?  I'm  due  to  go  and 
see  his  father  pretty  soon  and  I've  been  more  or  less 
sworn  to  secrecy." 

Yolande  could  offer  no  assistance,  but  the  ground  was 
cleared  before  Oakleigh  went  down  to  Sussex.  On  calling 
at  the  County  Club  for  letters,  Deryk  found  an  indignant 
note  from  Hatherly — Hatherly  now  the  familiar,  the  bravo, 
the  hired  assassin.  "Your  father  is  very  much  concerned 
to  know  what  has  happened  to  you,"  he  was  told.  "It  is 
six  weeks  since  you  went  to  town,  and  you  have  not  had 


126  MIDAS  AND  SON 

the  ordinary  kindness  to  say  a  single  word  of  what  you  are 
doing.  By  a  side-wind  we  hear  that  you  have  abandoned 
the  idea  of  going  to  Asia  Minor.  And  that  is  all.  Do  you 
consider  that  this  is  the  way  to  behave  to  your  father?" 
For  some  reason  that  he  could  not  put  into  words,  the 
letter  made  Deryk  angry.  In  reply  he  wrote  loftily :  "Why 
is  it  always  necessary  to  assume  that  I  cannot  be  out  of 
your  sight  for  a  few  days  without  getting  up  to  mischief? 
As  George  Oakleigh  can  tell  you,  when  he  goes  down  next 
■week,  I  have  a  bet  on  that  I  can  earn  a  living  at  journal- 
ism without  any  previous  training.  I  think  I'm  doing  quite 
well  for  a  beginner."  He  added  that  he  found  it  pleas- 
ant to  have  a  little  money  of  his  own,  for  which  he  did 
not  have  to  account  to  anyone ;  but  on  reflection  the  taunt 
seemed  puerile,  and  he  re-wrote  the  letter  without  it. 

Then  he  addressed  himself  to  Idina.  It  was  becoming 
daily  harder  to  say  anything  in  his  letters  to  her,  but  the 
experiment  was  succeeding  so  well  that  at  the  end  of  six 
months  he  was  determined  to  see  his  fatlier  and  lay  all 
his  cards  on  the  table.  He  would  then  be  in  a  position  to 
support  a  wife  in  some  sort,  and,  if  his  father  really  in- 
tended to  behave  melodramatically,  he  must  take  the  con- 
sequences. Not  that  he  could,  not  that  he  could!  Good 
Heavens!  the  money  wasn't  going  to  be  left  away  from 
him  to  a  Home  for  Lost  Dogs.  And  yet — you  never 
knew  where  to  have  a  man  like  that.  .  .  .  Deryk,  strong, 
sane  and  conciliatory,  constructed  the  scene  afresh  and 
with  greater  appreciation  every  time  that  he  seemed  to  be 
climbing  a  step  higher  in  his  self-sought  career.  He  only 
wished  that  he  could  share  his  elation  with  Idina,  but  you 
could  not  very  well  brag  about  what  you  were  doing  with- 
out explaining  why  you  were  doing  it ;  and  his  only  ex- 
planation was  a  moral  certainty  that  his  father  did  not 
wish  him  to  marry  her.  .  .  .  There  had  been  so  little 
common  memory  on  which  to  draw  that  these  daily  let- 
ters grew  harder  and  harder  to  write ;  he  wondered  im- 
patiently whether  it  would  not  be  wiser  to  discontinue 
them ;  yet  she  seemed  to  like  them,  to  judge  from  her  let- 


i 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  127 

ters  to  him ;  apparently  she  always  went  out  before  break- 
fast to  meet  the  postman  .  ,  .  and  read  them  again  and 
again  during  the  day  .  .  .  and  had  one  last  look  at  them 
before  turning  out  the  light.  .  .  .  He  thought  that  that 
kind  of  thing  was  only  done  in  books  or  on  the  stage.  .  .  . 
It  was  an  extraordinary  thing  that  he,  who  was,  after  all, 
a  very  ord'ma.ry  person,  should  mean  so  much  to  anyone.  .  . 

At  Ripley  Court  George  Oakleigh  was  required  to  report 
all  that  he  knew  of  Deryk's  activities ;  he  gave  the  facts 
without  comment.  Deryk  was  reviewing  for  three  or  four 
papers  and  writing  the  musical  notes  for  the  "Art  Re- 
view" and  "The  Critic" ;  in  "Peace"  office  he  was  learning 
to  do  some  of  the  sub-editing  and  allowed  to  try  his  hand 
on  an  occasional  leader.  There  were  also  some  miscel- 
laneous sketches  and  articles  for  odd  corners  in  odd  mo- 
ments, for,  with  the  exception  of  the  Ilkley  Papers,  he 
was  giving  the  whole  of  a  long  day  to  the  work.  At  night 
Oakleigh  was  introducing  him  to  political  London. 

"It  will  be  a  valuable  experience  for  him,"  was  Sir 
Avlmer's  non-committal  comment.  "I'm  afraid  it  must 
be  absorbing  a  good  deal  of  your  time,  though." 

"I've  taken  a  great  fancy  to  him,"  Oakleigh  replied, 
truthfully  enough.  "I  admire  his  tireless  vitality ;  I  should 
think  he  could  make  a  success  of  anything  he  undertook." 

Sir  Aylmer  was  gratified,  if  not  enlightened.  After  his 
visitor  had  left,  he  talked  long  with  Hatherly,  and  Ray- 
mond on  his  next  visit  was  minutely  examined.  Shortly 
before  Easter  Hatherly  paid  a  visit  to  London  and  tried  to 
get  first-hand  information.  It  was  a  project  that  he  had 
had  in  mind  for  some  time,  and  he  was  driven  to  action  by 
one  of  Sir  Aylmer's  periodical  relapses,  which  sent  him  in 
panic  to  bring  Deryk  home  at  all  costs.  Arriving  in  Bou- 
verie  Street  he  found  that  Oakleigh  had  left  the  office 
and  that  Deryk  was  gone  home  to  dress  and  dine  before  a 
concert.  He  met  Yolande,  however,  at  the  end  of  Chan- 
cery Lane  and  persuaded  her  to  dine  with  him  in  the 
Savoy  Grill  Room.  By  an  excited,  ill-considered  attack 
on  Deryk   for  heartlessness,  he   roused  her  to  say  more 


128  MIDAS  AND  SON 

than  she  would  willingly  have  disclosed  to  a  man  whom 
age,  in  her  eyes,  made  Deryk's  natural  enemy. 

"I  daresay  it  is  very  unfeeling,"  she  exclaimed,  "and 
I'm  sorry  for  Sir  Aylmer,  but  he  brought  it  on  himself; 
he  was  treating  Deryk  like  a  child." 

"I've  told  you  that  his  father  nearly  died  last  night," 
said  Hatherly  indignantly,  "he  may  still  die  at  any  mo- 
ment. What's  Der}'k  doing?  Why's  he  doing  it?  I  refuse 
to  believe  this  nonsense  about  a  wager  with  Oakleigh." 

"You  refuse  to  believe  that  he  may  be  seeing  if  he  can 
live  independently  of  Sir  Aylmer?"  Yolande  enquired 
deliberately.  "Candidly,  Mr.  Hatherly,  in  his  place  and 
with  a  spark  of  pride,  I'd  do  the  same.  I  would  not  be 
told  what  I  was  to  do,  whom  I  might  marry •" 

"The  question  has  never  arisen,"  Hatherly  interrupted. 

"It's  bound  to  be  always  in  the  background,"  Yolande 
retorted. 

"Do  you  think  a  girl  will  be  so  much  glamoured  by 
Deryk  when  she  hears  that  he's  broken  off  all  relations  with 
his  father?"  Hatherly  asked  with  a  mixture  of  worldli- 
ness  and  malice. 

"If  she's  worth  a  damn!"  Yolande  cried  with  a  vehe- 
mence that  made  the  neighbours  turn  wonderingly  round. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  rather  excited. 
You  see,  Deryk's  a  sort  of  brother  to  me ;  I  should  have 
married  him,  if  you  and  Sir  Aylmer  hadn't  tried  to  make 
me.  I'm  young  and  quite  pretty,  I  could  make  him  do 
anything  I  wanted,  we're  poor  and  he's  rich,  I'm  an  Hon- 
ourable  " 

Hatherly  was  embarrassed,  and  his  expression  betrayed 
it. 

"You  young  people  are  altogether  too  modern  for  me!" 
he  exclaimed. 

"Have  I  shocked  you?"  Yolande  laughed.  "I'm  sorry, 
but,  if  there's  one  thing  I  hate  it's  mealy-mouthedness. 
Do  look  things  in  the  face!  There  are  limits  even  to  a 
millionaire's  power,  if  people  have  the  pluck  to  stand  up 
to  him." 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  129 

"Well,  at  least  I  know  the  explanation  of  Deryk's  ex- 
traordinary behaviour,"  said  Hatherly,  as  he  signalled  to 
the  waiter  for  his  bill. 

"But  it  isn't  extraordinary !"  she  protested.  "It's  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  And  you  might  have 
guessed  it  from  the  time  that  Deryk  disappeared  at  the 
ball.  The  awful  thing  about  Ripley  Court  is  that  there 
are  no  women  there,  nobody  to  understand,  nobody  to  help 
poor  old  Deryk." 

Hatherly  paid  his  bill  and  pocketed  his  change  with 
grave  deliberation. 

"I  sometimes  feel  that  we're  too  old,"  he  murmured  to 
himself.  "But,  if  Deryk  is — contemplating  anything,  he 
might  reasonably  be  expected  to  consult  his  father  first. 
If  he's  engaged  already,  I  think  he's  behaved  abominably." 

"He's  not  engaged,"  Yolande  reassured  him.  "For  the 
rest,  I  should  most  reasonably  advise  him  to  save  his 
breath.  If  Sir  Aylmer  objects,  he'll  have  to  fight  or  be 
written  down  a  cur;  if  Sir  Aylmer  doesn't  object,  it's 
waste  of  time.  Mr.  Hatherly,  I  feel  an  awful  pig  to  let 
you  take  me  out  to  dinner  and  then  talk  like  this " 

Hatherly  shook  his  head  wistfully,  as  he  looked  at  the 
bright  eyes  and  vivid  colour  in  a  normally  pale  face. 

"The  rod's  in  pickle,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  told 
her.  "When  your  children  discover  that  you're  too 
old " 

"Ah,  but  I  shan't  marry ;  Fve  got  work " 

"Fiddle-de-dee!"  interrupted  Hatherly,  as  they  rose  from 
the  table. 

He  returned  to  Aston  Ripley  the  next  morning,  sharing  a 
compartment  with  Sidney  Dawson,  who  had  stayed  in  Lon- 
don as  long  as  he  could  bear  the  sense  of  solitude  in  a 
crowded  city  and  was  now  rhythmically  returning  to  the 
Grange  for  as  long  as  he  could  bear  the  monotony  and  his 
sister's  querulous  tongue.  On  the  way  down  he  enquired 
conventionally  after  Sir  Aylmer  and  expressed  the  hope 
that  this  story  about  Deryk  might  not  be  true. 


130  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"I  don't  know  what  the  story  is,"  answered  Hatherly, 
setting  his  teeth. 

"Somebody  was  talking  about  it  at  the  Club,"  said  Daw- 
son with  a  pretended  effort  of  memory.  "Oh,  it  was  young 
Deganway.  He  seemed  to  think  Lancing  was  paying  con- 
siderable attentions  at  the  ball — I  didn't  see  anything  my- 
self, I'm  sure " 

"To  Miss  Penrose?"  Hatherly  asked  carelessly.  "They've 
been  brought  up  like  brother  and  sister  since  they  were 
small  children." 

"Deganway  told  me  that  they  were  engaged  and  that 
Lancing  refused  to  recognise  the  engagement,"  said  Daw- 
son, watching  his  companion's  face  narrowly.  "There'd 
been  a  row,  according  to  the  story,  and  the  boy  had  been 
turned  out  of  the  house." 

Hatherly  laughed,  but  the  laugh  rang  false. 

"I  hate  to  spoil  a  good  story,"  he  said,  "but  there's  not* 
a  word  of  truth  in  it.  What  can  have  prompted  Degan- 
way  " 

"Oh,  he  didn't  start  it.  Summertown  discovered  young 
Lancing  at  the  Club,  writing  an  article  for  some  review; 
you  can  probably  trace  it  back  to  that.  My  sister  was 
saying  something  about  it,  too ;  Marsham  or  Forsyte  had 
mentioned  the  subject.  .  .  ." 

On  arriving  at  Ripley  Court,  Hatherly  found  Sir  Aylmer 
rather  stronger.  He  gave  a  full  account  of  his  visit  and 
plucked  up  courage  to  add  a  word  of  unwelcome  advice. 

"You  can't  bring  Deryk  back  by  force,"  he  pointed  out, 
"and,  so  long  as  he's  making  money,  he  can't  be  starved 
out.  You  can  meet  him  over  the  money  question — and  then 
you'll  have  no  control  over  his  actions ;  or  you  can  go  on 
as  you're  doing  and  trust  that  the  girl  won't  marry  him 
when  she  finds  what  a  love-in-a-cottage  business  it's  going 
to  be.  Those  are  the  alternatives.  I  want  you  to  appre- 
ciate that,  if  you  go  on,  you'll  lose  Deryk  for  good  and 
all ;  I  told  you  that  weeks  ago." 

Sir  Aylmer  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his  chair 
and  his  head  pressed  between  his  hands.     In  Hatherly's 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  131 

absence  he,  too,  had  been  thinking.  Looking  up  at  length, 
he  shook  his  head. 

"In  the  long  run  he'll  have  to  go  his  own  way,"  he  said. 
"I'm  not  going  to  leave  the  money  away  from  him,  and 
you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  He'd  know  it,  too,  if  he 
stopped  to  think  what  he  means  to  me." 

"Then,  assuming  that  he  wants  to  marry  this  Penrose 
girl,  what's  your  objection?"  asked  Hatherly. 

"To  the  girl  ?  None  at  all.  I'd  have  found  her  a  lucra- 
tive job  at  the  other  end  of  the  world,  if  I  had,"  Sir  Ayl- 
mer  added  grimly,  with  a  ferocious  determination  that 
brought  a  catch  in  Hatherly's  breathing.  "I  don't  even 
say  that  she's  unduly — affected  by  the  money.  But  she'll 
be  a  drag  on  Deryk.  He  wants  someone  running  along 
the  towpath  cheering  and  forcing  him  to  make  just  one 
more  spurt,  when  he  feels  that  he's  not  got  it  in  him.  She'll 
never  do  that."  He  looked  before  him  with  a  haggard 
face.  "But,  if  he  wants  to  marry  her,  he  shall.  I  made 
up  my  mind  years  ago  that  I  wouldn't  stand  in  the  way. 
And  I  won't,  even  if  I  thought  her  far  more  unsuitable 
than  I  do.  I  want  to  be  sure,  though,  that  he  really  does 
want  to.  He's  so  young,  he's  seen  so  few  women.  .  .  . 
And,  when  you're  in  love  for  the  first  time,  you're  so 
certain  of  yourself;  and,  when  it's  all  over  and  you  look 
back  on  it,  you  simply  can't  understand  what  you  were 
thinking  about.     I've  been  through  it,  Ted." 

Hatherly  made  no  answer.  The  one  girl  with  whom  he 
had  been  in  love  had  been  drowned  in  a  shipwreck;  he 
had  never  looked  for  another.  Sir  Aylmer,  as  a  young 
man,  had  seemed  unable  to  live  without  female  companion- 
ship; in  his  will  there  were  various  sums  of  money  for 
women  who  would  be  withered  and  unlovely,  possibly  dead, 
before  it  became  ripe  for  payment. 

"Have  you  thought  of  a  time-limit?"  he  asked  after 
some  moments'  space.  "Recognise  the  engagement,  but 
say  they're  not  to  marry  for  a  couple  of  years." 

"If  Deryk's  the  man  I  should  like  to  think  him,  he'd  feel 
bound  to  marry  her,  even  if  he  were  utterly  tired  of  her 


132  MIDAS  AND  SON 

at  the  end  of  the  time,  Foohsh,  but  honourable,"  he  added 
contemptuously. 

Another  solution  of  the  difficulty  was  being  attempted 
while  they  talked.  As  Idina  walked  home  from  the  Grange, 
she  was  met  by  Sidney  Dawson,  who  told  her  that  he  had 
taken  the  liberty  of  bringing  her  down  some  flowers  from 
London  and  leaving  them  at  Ivy  Cottage.  They  looked  so 
beautiful  that  he  could  not  resist  them,  he  said,  and  it  was 
such  a  bad  time  for  flowers  in  the  country.  Idina  flushed 
with  pleasure,  when  she  saw  them,  and  made  him  sit  down 
while  she  unpacked  and  put  them  in  water.  Their  walks 
had  hitherto  stopped  short  at  the  gate  of  the  garden,  when 
he  would  lift  his  hat  with  a  certain  flourish,  bow  low  and 
walk  away,  swinging  his  stick  and  holding  himself  very 
erect ;  it  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  been  inside  the 
house  since  her  father's  death.  He  sat  with  his  cane  and 
gloves  on  his  knees,  watching  the  quick  movements  of  her 
pliant  body;  she  had  rolled  up  her  sleeves,  baring  graceful 
white  arms,  and  her  fingers,  glistening  with  water,  were 
slender  and  tapering.  Suddenly  he  found  himself  on  his 
feet,  asking  her  to  marry  him.  At  first  she  did  not  seem 
to  understand,  but,  when  he  repeated  the  words,  her  eyes 
filled  with  dismay  and  distress,  and  she  could  only  look  at 
him  and  shake  her  head. 

Of  what  happened  afterwards  Idina  preserved  no  clear 
recollection.  The  attack  was  so  unexpected  that  m.inutes 
passed  before  she  could  think  connectedly ;  she  had  never 
looked  upon  Dawson  as  a  man  who  wanted  to  marry  her 
or  anyone  else,  he  had  never  shewn  her  an\i:hing  but  a 
considerate  courtesy.  And,  in  accepting  insignificant  po- 
litenesses and  attentions,  she  had  surely  never  behaved  or 
spoken  in  a  way  to  rouse  his  hopes.  No  one  was  to  blame, 
but  she  felt  immeasurably  sorry  for  him,  as  he  stood 
before  her  protesting,  deprecating,  repeating  himself.  He 
had  apparently  been  speaking  for  some  time,  but  she  had 
not  caught  his  drift;  telling  her  that  there  was,  of  course, 
a  considerable  difference  of  age,  but  that  she  would  never 
regret  it;  he  knew  that  her  life  was  not  happy  and  asked 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  133 

nothing  better  than  to  devote  himself  to  her  happiness. 
She  should  do  what  she  liked,  live  where  she  chose ;  he 
had  a  house  in  Eaton  Square,  and  they  could  get  it  back, 
when  the  lease  ran  out,  or,  if  she  preferred  the  country, 
there  was  the  Grange,  or  they  could  live  abroad.  She  had 
never  been  out  of  England  since  her  return  from  India; 
he  talked  of  a  villa  on  the  Riviera  or  at  Naples,  a  house  in 
Florence,  another  villa  in  Normandy  for  the  summer.  .  .  . 

Idina  waited  for  him  to  make  an  end,  but  he  spoke  des- 
perately, like  a  man  arguing  for  his  life  and  knowing  that 
death  would  come  when  the  thin-drawn  argument  ended. 

"I'm  sorry,  I'd  do  anything  not  to  hurt  you,  but  it's  im- 
possible," she  said. 

"You  think  I'm  too  old !"  he  began  excitedly. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that !"  Idina  cried,  lacing  and  unlacing  her 
fingers  in  her  distress. 

He  took  a  step  forward  and  caught  one  of  her  hands. 

"Can't  you  ever  care  for  me — at  all  ?"  he  whispered.  His 
voice  was  pleading,  his  eyes  looked  at  her  as  though  he 
were  a  dog  begging  to  be  caressed. 

"I  do  care  for  you !"  she  answered.  "But  it's  impo«i- 
sible — oh,  I  do  wish  you  didn't  seem  to  mind  so  much !" 

He  relinquished  her  hand  and  stood  silent  with  bowed 
head. 

"I  won't  take  *no'  for  an  answer,"  he  told  her  with  re- 
turning steadiness  in  his  tone.  "When  you've  thought  it 
over — I'm  afraid  I  took  you  by  surprise,  I  thought  you 
couldn't  help  seeing.  .  .  .     Later  on " 

"Oh,  please  don't  talk  about  it  again!"  she  implored 
him. 

"Your  answer  will  still  be  *no'?" 

"I'm  afraid  so." 

"You  are  not  engaged  already?"  he  asked. 

Idina  looked  up  quickly  and  met  his  eyes  unwaveringly. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Then  I  refuse  to  take  'no'  for  an  answer,"  he  repeated, 
—"yet  awhile." 


134  MIDAS  AND  SON 


When  Idina  reached  the  Grange  next  morning,  Sidney 
Dawson  was  not  there.     He  had  returned  to  town  by  the 
last  train,  leaving  his  sister  in  a  state  of  curiosity  and  ex- 
citement, which  survived  the  night  and  spread  tension  and 
nei-vous  unrest  through  the  house.     Sidney  was  pre-emi- 
nently a  man  of  method.     He  wrote  punctiliously  to  warn 
her  of  the  train  to  meet  and  alv/ays  gave  her  several  days' 
notice  before  arriving  or  leaving;  the  times  of  all  the  meals 
were  altered  to  conform  with  his  London  habits;  he  me- 
thodically drank  a  glass  of   sherry  half   an  hour  before 
dinner  and  as  methodically  smoked  one  small  cigar  after 
it  and  a  cheroot  before  going  to  bed.     His  day  was  care- 
fully planned  and  admitted  of  no  disturbance;  breakfast 
and  the  morning  paper,  a  constitutional,  his  letters  and  a 
morning  call  on  that  dreadful,  chirpy  vicar,  or  Sir  Aylmer, 
if  he  were  well  enough,  or,  in  the  old  days.  Colonel  Pen- 
rose.    Then    followed  luncheon,   a   book,   another   consti- 
tutional and  tea;  until  the  evening  letters  came  in,  he  sat 
with  his  sister  in  the  over-furnished  under-ventilated  draw- 
ing-room,   acerbating   her   nerves    with    thrice-told    anec- 
dotes ;  in  her  turn  she  drove  him  to  the  limits  of  endurance 
with  a  steady  flow  of  safe  but  inaccurate  generalisations 
on  all  subjects.    After  a  week  or  two  Sidney  usually  found 
it  necessary  to  see  his  solicitors.     This  life  had  continued 
for  fifteen  years,  since  at  the  age  of  thirty  he  had  found 
his  friends  getting  married  and  himself  left  without  play- 
fellows. 

Miss  Dawson  was  ten  years  older  than  her  brother  and 
had  lived  long  in  half-retirement,  struggling  with  an  in- 
herited tendency  to  diabetes  and  an  embittering  grievance 
that  no  one  needed  her.  As  a  girl,  no  man  had  ever  asked 
her  to  marry  him :  after  she  had  ruled  the  Grange  and  its 
inmates  for  half  a  generation,  her  father  left  it  away 
from  her  to  Sidney,  to  whom  she  must  crawl  on  her  knees 
for  bread  and  butter,  as  she  put  it  with  more  vigour  than 
truth;   and  now   her  health  was   vanishing.  ...     In  the 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  135 

early  days  of  the  disease  she  had  talked  pleasurably  about 
herself  to  Forsyte ;  later  she  sought  spiritual  consolation 
from  the  vicar  of  Aston  Ripley,  who  broke  into  her  self- 
pity  with  a  brisk,  mechanical  adjuration  to  fortitude  under 
trial  (she  was  not  likely  to  forget  his  penny-in-the-slot 
consolation — "Resignation,  dear  lady — inscrutable  designs — 
test  our  faith — endure  to  the  end" — nor  the  infinitely  more 
artistic  sympathy  of  a  priest,  who  called  and  called  again 
until  the  day  when  her  brother  remembered  his  allegiance 
to  the  church  which  exists  to  put  its  heel  firmly  on  Papists 
who  tried  to  worm  their  way  into  respectable  houses). 
Thereafter  she  carried  her  grievances  to  the  highest  tribu- 
nal. "I  wonder  if  the  Almighty  knows  what  bad  odour  he's 
in  with  Miss  Dawson,"  sighed  Raymond  Stornaway  after 
an  hour  of  her  conversation.  When  nothing  came  of  that, 
she  began  to  associate  furtively  with  a  number  of  elderly 
friends  who  set  themselves  to  spell  out  messages  from  an- 
other world ;  books  with  mystical  titles  made  their  way 
into  her  room,  when  Sidney  was  in  London ;  her  confiden- 
tial conversation  was  concerned  with  "aura,"  the  "sub- 
liminal state,"  "messages"  and  "astral  bodies."  Sidney, 
when  at  length  he  heard  of  it,  was  scornfully  rational,  so 
she  took  one  of  his  gloves  to  a  clairvoyant,  who  held  it  to 
her  forehead  and  prophesied  in  a  language  of  her  own. 
There  was  a  recognised  stage  in  all  future  altercations  at 
which  Miss  Dawson  would  quote  to  him,  because  she  felt 
that  he  ought  to  know,  long  and  astonishingly  outspoken 
communications  from  the  far  side  of  the  grave.  Nothing 
that  he  did  was  too  insignificant  for  the  exasperatingly  so- 
licitous notice  of  his  dead  friends.  .  .  . 

With  the  belief  of  the  young  in  the  ultimate  kindness  of 
their  fellows,  Idina  had  considered  and  faced  all  her  em- 
ployer's shortcomings.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  an 
elderly  woman  could  be  jealous  of  youth  and  good  looks 
or  that  she  would  seek  consolation  in  the  power  of  money 
and  the  dominion  which  it  still  gave  her  over  her  depend- 
ents. She  was  exacting,  but  then  she  was  an  invalid;  no 
one  could  feel  personal  antagonism  to  a  girl  who  was  doing 


136  MIDAS  AND  SON 

her  best  to  give  satisfaction.  .  .  .  Idina  ran  about  the 
house  with  a  beauty  of  body,  a  warmth  and  softness,  of 
which  she  was  almost  unconscious,  though  Miss  Dawson 
knew  that  it  must  waken  desire  in  every  man  as  she  had 
never  wakened  it.  Sidney  would  sit  in  the  drawing-room, 
drinking  tea  or  pretending  to  read  a  book,  but  devouring 
her  the  whole  time  with  his  eyes.  With  his  exasperating 
method  he  would  always  excuse  himself  at  the  same  time, 
always  wander  through  the  garden  on  to  the  highroad,  al- 
ways wait  for  her  and  escort  her  home — a  fluffy,  blue-eyed 
doll,  with  still  enough  youth  for  her  brother  to  make  a 
fool  of  himself  about  her.  .  .  . 

Miss  Dawson  could  not  resist  letting  it  be  known  that 
she  was  well  aware  why  Sidney  now  visited  her  so  much 
more  frequently.  She  gave  him  her  frank  opinion  that 
any  man  of  his  age  was  a  fool  to  think  of  marrying  an 
inexperienced  child  of  twenty  and  doubly  a  fool  to  imag- 
ine that  he  had  any  attraction  but  his  money.  Would  he 
please — she  did  not  wish  to  be  unkind — would  he  please 
look  at  himself  in  the  glass? 

He  had  looked  in  the  glass  the  day  before  and  marched 
out,  flowers  in  hand,  with  a  determined  air  that  aroused 
his  sister's  worst  misgivings.  He  had  returned  some  time 
later  and  quietly  slipped  into  the  car  and  away  to  the  sta- 
tion, leaving  a  message  that  he  had  been  recalled  to  town. 
For  a  moment  his  sister  feared  that  he  had  taken  the  girl 
with  him :  it  was  ascertained  that  no  telegram  had  been 
delivered,  and  that  he  had  left  before  the  evening  mail  came 
in.  The  chauffeur  testified,  however,  that  his  master  had 
got  into  an  empty  carriage.  .  .  .  And  in  the  morning 
Idina  arrived  at  her  accustomed  time,  prepared  to  go  about 
her  accustomed  work. 

Miss  Dawson's  anger  that  her  brother  should  think  of 
marrying  Idina  was  swallowed  in  a  more  devastating  anger 
that  she  should  presume  to  refuse  him.  Throughout  the 
morning  she  gave  no  sign,  sitting  before  a  blazing  fire  with 
her  hands  folded  in  the  lap  of  a  black  silk  dress,  a  plump, 
fair  woman  with  rather  bright,  pale  eyes  and  a  sing-song 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  137 

voice,  while  Idina  read  the  "Times"  aloud  or  took  down 
letters  from  her  dictation.  At  half-past  one  she  asked  the 
girl  to  keep  her  company  at  luncheon. 

"My  brother  returned  to  London  yesterday  evening/* 
she  said,  to  explain  her  request.  "Did  you  see  him  by  any 
chance  ?" 

Idina  could  not  help  blushing. 

"He  very  kindly  brought  me  some  flowers,"  she  said,. 
"I  met  him  just  before  I  got  home." 

"Can  you  imagine  what  can  have  taken  him  back?"  Misa 
Dawson  went  on,  indifference  masking  watchful  alertness. 

"He  didn't  say  anything  about  it." 

"That  was  not  my  question,  Miss  Penrose,"  rapped  out 
Miss  Dawson,  like  an  animal  making  its  spring. 

The  girl's  confusion  told  Miss  Dawson  all  that  she 
wanted  to  know. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  help,"  said  Idina  with  a  hint  of 
obstinacy. 

"You  give  me  the  idea  that  you're  not  speaking  the  whole 
truth,"  said  Miss  Dawson  severely. 

Idina  attempted  no  reply,  and  they  went  in  to  luncheon 
together. 

The  afternoons  were  usually  the  worst  time  of  the  day 
for  Idina,  as  Miss  Dawson,  ever  cold  and  sensitive  to 
draughts,  would  lean  comfortably  back  in  front  of  the 
piled-up  fire,  requiring  her  companion  to  read  aloud  until 
tea  was  brought  in.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  keep 
awake  in  the  airless,  musty  drawing-room,  but,  if  Idina 
paused  for  a  moment  to  listen  to  the  placid,  stertorous 
breathing  by  the  fire.  Miss  Dawson  would  rouse  at  the 
unfamiliar  silence  and  order  her  sharply  to  go  on  until 
told  to  stop.  She  would  go  on  for  a  time,  but  not  infre- 
quently the  book  slipped  on  to  her  lap,  and  her  head 
drooped  forward.  When  she  awoke,  it  was  always  to  find 
that  Miss  Dawson  was  awake  before  her ;  she  would  be 
reminded  that  she  was  paid  for  her  services  and  that,  if 
it  were  too  much  trouble  to  read  a  few  pages  in  the  after- 


138  MIDAS  AND  SON 

noon,  someone  else  must  be  found  of  more  obliging  tem- 
per. .  .  . 

To-day  no  book  was  produced.  Miss  Dawson  settled 
herself  in  her  chair  and  demanded  to  be  told  what  had 
passed  between  her  brother  and  the  girl  the  evening  before. 

"You  may  not  know  it,  but  I've  had  my  eye  on  you  for 
some  time,"  she  announced.  "I've  seen  the  way  that  you've 
laid  yourself  out  for  him " 

"I  didn't!"  Idina  burst  out  indignantly. 

Miss  Dawson  raised  her  eyebrows  and  nodded  like  a 
mandarin. 

"Contradiction  wasn't  thought  polite  in  my  young  days," 
she  announced  with  a  set  smile,  the  voice  rising  a  seventh 
and  falling  note  by  note,  "and  I  don't  know  that  it's  po- 
lite now.  When  you  walk  along  the  roads  morning  and 
evening  with  him,  when  you  accept  presents " 

"They  were  only  flowers.    And  I  couldn't  help  it!" 

"In  my  young  days  we  sometimes  let  our  elders  finish 
what  they  were  trying  to  say,  and  I  have  to  say  that  this 
sort  of  thing  cannot  possibly  be   allowed  to  go  on.     If 

you  think  that  it's  going  to  lead  to  something "     Idina 

was  about  to  interrupt  again,  but  checked  herself  in  time. 
"I  can't  tell  whether  you  expect  something  more  than 
'only  flowers'  next  time.  Perhaps  you  don't  see  that  all 
this  is  rather  unmaidenly.  Has  my  brother  ever  said  any- 
thing to  you  ?"  she  asked  with  a  meaning  change  of  tone. 

"I  refuse  to  say." 

Miss  Dawson's  pale  eyes  gleamed  brightly,  as  a  new 
and  welcome  vista  opened  to  view.  Everyone  in  Aston 
Ripley  knew  that  Deryk  Lancing  and  this  girl  had  been 
brought  up  together,  ever>'one  had  been  revivmg  the  mem- 
ory during  these  last  weeks.  It  seemed  that  they  had  be- 
haved very  curiously  at  the  ball,  though  not,  perhaps,  more 
curiously  than  one  would  expect.  .  .  .  An  ill-bred  boy, 
who  had  not  been  whipped  into  good  manners  at  school. 
.  .  ,  "Perhaps  you  thought  that  you  might  fare  better 
without  going  so  far,"  suggested  Miss  Dawson ;  then  her 
tone  changed.    "I'm  not  going  to  let  my  brother  be  dangled 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  139 

on  a  string,  while  young  ladies  look  round  the  neighbour- 
hood for  something  better." 

Idina  bent  her  head  forward  until  her  face  was  hidden 
from  her  tormentor.     She  had  often  cried  at  home  during 
the  last  few  months,  but  her  pride  always  strengthened  her 
to  keep  a  composed  face  in  her  employer's  presence.    Now 
she  could  feel  her  eyes  smarting  and  her  underlip  growing 
unsteady.     A  moment  later  she  had  snatched  a  handker- 
chief  from   her  belt  and   was   hurrying   from  the  room. 
When  Miss  Dawson  rang  for  tea,  she  was  informed  that 
the  girl  was  no  longer  in  the  house.     The  evening  letters 
would  still  require  attention,  but  Miss  Dawson  consoled 
herself  for  present  inconvenience  by  thinking  how  shame- 
faced her  companion  would  be  in  the  morning  and  how 
difficult  she  would  find  the  walk  from  Ivy  Cottage.     Not 
that  she  liked  giving  pain ;  it  had  been  a  disagreeable,  up- 
setting  interview,   but   quite   unavoidable ;   one    could   not 
allow  this  sort  of  thing  to  go  on,  there  would  be  a  public 
scandal,  the  servants  would  leave.     Miss  Dawson  was  not 
at  all  sure  that  the  scandal  was  not  already  well  afoot.  .  .  . 
Idina  hurried  home  sobbing  and  sobbed  alone  until  she 
seemed  to  have  exhausted  her  tears.    She  could  still  hardly 
think  of  yesterday's   interview   and   Sidney's   stammering 
urgency  without  a  shudder;  to  have  the  agony  revived  and 
imputed   to  her   for  sin  was  more   than   she   could  bear. 
She  did  not  want  him,  she  had  never  been  more  than  rea- 
sonably polite  to  him ;  and  this  was  "unmaidenly."     The 
old-fashioned  word,  which  would  have  made  her  smile  at 
another  time,  stung  and  stung  her  again ;  Miss  Dawson  had 
so  obviously  enjoyed  using  it.     She  was  being  hurt,  as  she 
had  seen  other  companions  being  hurt  for  years,  but  of 
deliberate  purpose;  she  had  never  believed  it  possible  be- 
fore, but  there  was  no  room  for  doubt.     (At  their  first  in- 
terview Miss  Dawson  had  shewn  her  hand.     "You  will  be 
here  on  a  business  footing;  I'm  not  engaging  you  out  of 
charity  or  any  sentimental  nonsense  of  that  kind.")     For 
the  last  month  she  had  gone  about  her  work  light-heartedly, 
without   thinking  of   the   future.     Deryk   was   home,  and 


I40  MIDAS  AND  SON 

nothing  mattered ;  but  she  could  not  stand  much  more  of 
this.  Her  spirit  was  being  gradually  broken,  she  could  be 
made  to  cry  at  will.  ...  If  only  Deryk  would  come  down 
from  London ! 

She  unlocked  her  father's  old  despatch-box  and  tried  to 
comfort  herself  by  reading  Deryk's  letters  once  again. 
They  were  becoming  less  regular  and  more  uncommuni- 
cative;  work  here,  work  there,  but  no  explanation  why  he 
was  working.  She  trusted  him  unhesitatingly,  when  he 
said  that  he  could  not  explain  the  reason  for  his  sudden 
departure,  but  it  was  all  so  hard  to  understand.  Old  Philli- 
more,  when  she  met  him  after  service  at  Ripley  Court 
chapel,  understood  that  Master  Deryk  was  in  town  buying 
his  equipment  before  going  abroad;  Hatherly  told  her 
later  that  Manisty  had  gone  to  Hellenopolis  alone  and  that 
Deryk  was  still  in  London.  She  enquired  unreservedly 
every  Sunday  evening  at  the  door  of  the  chapel,  and  Hath- 
erly or  Sir  Aylmer  always  gave  her  the  latest  tidings  with 
a  show  of  frankness;  Deryk  was  helping  Lord  Ilkley  to 
catalogue  and  arrange  his  collection  of  Greek  pottery; 
Deryk  was  at  work  on  a  book,  .  .  . 

"He  seems  to  be  too  busy  to  write  much,"  said  Sir  Ayl- 
mer, with  his  deep-set  eyes  fixed  steadily  away  from  Idina 
on  the  curving  lines  of  the  deserted  drive. 

"Do  you  expect  him  down  here  for  Easter?"  she  asked. 

"I  can't  say,"  Sir  Aylmer  answered  after  a  long  pause, 
as  he  motioned  to  Benson  to  wheel  him  back  to  the  house. 
"He's  very  busy  at  present ;  then  the  London  season  will 
soon  be  starting ;  he  may  stop  up  for  that." 

Idina  walked  home,  puzzling  her  brains  to  reconcile 
Deryk's  trouble  of  mind,  when  he  last  spoke  to  her  by  tele- 
phone, with  a  self-sought  life  of  journalism  and  social 
amusements ;  there  was  no  intelligible  reason  why  he  should 
make  a  mystery  of  what  he  was  doing,  though  she  would 
be  the  first  to  make  excuses  for  him,  defend  him,  admit 
that  his  position  was  exceptional  and  his  time  not  his  own. 
She  had  never  dreamed  of  doubting  or  even  questioning 
him  until  the   evening  after   Miss   Dawson's   unkindness, 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  141 

but  she  depended  on  him  so  much  that  she  felt  driven  to 
pull  at  the  anchor  just  to  see  that  it  was  there.  It  was 
hard  to  write  without  worrying  him,  and,  whatever  hap- 
pened, he  must  not  think  that  she  was  unhappy,  or  he 
would  be  unhappy,  too.  .  .  . 

"I  never  have  any  news  for  you,  Deryk  dear,"  she  wrote, 
"but  I  love  to  hear  anything  of  what  you  are  doing.  When 
are  you  coming  home?  Time  goes  dreadfully  slowly  with- 
out you,  and,  though  I  got  almost  used  to  it  when  you 
were  abroad,  I  can't  bear  to  think  that  you're  only  forty- 
five  miles  away  and  that  I  never  see  you.  I  met  your 
father  on  Sunday,  and  he  told  me  that  you  were  very 
hard  at  work.  What  is  it,  Deryk?  Or  oughtn't  I  to  ask? 
Mr.  Hatherly  said  something  about  your  writing  a  book; 
I  long  to  hear  about  it,  but  I  long  much  more  to  see  you. 
Can't  you  ever  get  away?    You  can't  imagine  how  lonely 

I  feel,  and  your  dear  letters  tell  me  so  little "    Her  pen 

lagged,  and  she  looked  out  of  the  window,  picturing  Deryk's 
receiving  the  letter,  as  she  received  his,  with  a  tremor  of 
delight  and  opening  it  before  all  the  others.  He  would 
get  it  to-morrow — perhaps  he  was  writing  to  her  now, 
perhaps  there  would  be  one  for  her  from  him,  to  read  as 
she  walked  to  the  Grange.  .  .  .  Her  mind  came  back 
abruptly  to  the  metalled,  white  road  running  without  bend 
or  turning  from  her  front  gate  to  Aston  Ripley ;  she  was 
getting  so  tired  of  walking  it,  so  tired  of  being  afraid  what 
treatment  the  day  might  bring  her;  really,  unless  Deryk 
came  back  soon,  she  would  have  to  make  a  change.  .  .  . 
"I  am  trying  to  screw  my  courage  up  to  make  a  change," 
she  continued  hurriedly.  "For  some  time  I've  felt  that  I 
don't  suit  Miss  Dawson  very  well  and  now  Fm  sure  of  it. 
I  must  try  to  get  someone  else  to  take  me,  but  I  don't  want 
to  go  away  from  here,  if  you're  coming  back.  Fm  not  feel- 
ing very  happy  to-night,  and  this  is  a  wretched  letter.  But 
then  I  never  shall  feel  happy  till  I've  got  you  here.  Do  you 
remember  the  day  you  came  over  after  you  got  back?  I 
always  look  on  the  stairs,  when  I  come  in,  to  see  if  you're 
hiding  there.     And  last  night  I'd  just  got  into  bed,  when 


142  MIDAS  AND  SON 

the  telephone  rang.  Sweetheart,  I  kne'w  it  must  be  you, 
and  it  wasn't!  Somebody  was  ringing  up  Dr.  Forsyte, 
and  the  wretched  girl  at  the  post  office  had  put  her  on  to 
the  wrong  number.  I  could  have  cried  with  disappoint- 
ment! 

"Good-bye,  Deryk,  and  bless  you.  You  have  all  my  love 
for  ever,  so  I  can't  .give  you  any  more." 

Two  days  later  she  had  her  reply. 

"Dina  darling,"  he  wrote,  "I  see  that  I  shall  have  to  say 
several  things  that  I  never  meant  you  to  know.  I  still 
think  that  you'd  be  wiser  just  to  believe  in  me  and  be  as 
patient  as  you  can,  but  I  can  tell  from  your  letter  that 
you're  unhappy  and  I  must  try  to  explain  the  position. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  that,  though  I'm  twenty-five, 
I'm  absolutely  dependent  on  my  father.  I  shan't  have  any- 
thing except  what  he  or  my  trustees  allow  me  till  I'm 
thirty — or  even  then,  if  he's  still  alive.  If  I  wanted  to 
many,  I  should  have  to  get  his  approval :  if  I  married,  I 
should  still  be  at  his  beck  and  call.  He  might  tell  me  to  go 
and  live  in  New  York  to  look  after  the  Trust,  and  I  should 
have  to  go.  I'm  very  fond  of  my  father,  but  he's  been 
ordering  people  about  half  his  life  and  doesn't  like  any- 
body to  have  a  will  of  his  own.  Well,  I've  got  my  share  of 
obstinacy  and  I  thought  this  kind  of  life  wasn't  good 
enough.  He'd  never  have  stood  it  at  my  age,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  stand  it  either.  I  decided  to  do  precisely  what 
he'd  have  done  in  my  place.  Without  saying  anything  to 
him,  I  came  to  London  to  see  if  I  could  earn  my  own  liv- 
ing: I've  done  it  for  six  weeks — far  more  successfully 
than  I  ever  thought  possible,  but  I'm  pretty  nearly  dead 
with  work,  and  anyway  six  weeks  is  too  short  a  test.  When 
I've  kept  afloat  for,  say,  six  months,  I  shall  be  in  a  better 
position  to  judge  whether  I've  made  good. 

"I  don't  know  how  much  you  think  I  love  you,  Dina, 
but  I  can  tell  you  that  I  love  you  too  well  to  take  any  risks, 
and  I  won't  allow  any  man  or  woman  alive  to  interfere  with 
me  and  tell  me  what  I  may  or  mayn't  do.  /  have  never 
asked  you  to  marry  me;  1  never  shall  till  I've  got  some- 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  143 

thing  to  offer  with  a  little  security  about  it.  Till  then  I 
leave  you  absoluteJy  free.  I  can't  tell  how  long  I  shall  have 
to  wait,  1  don't  know  what  I  shall  have  to  offer  at  the  end 
of  the  waiting;  it's  for  you  to  decide  if  it's  worth  while. 
If  you  do,  Dina,  you  must  put  forth  all  the  pluck  you've 
got.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  help  you ;  I  hate  the  idea  of 
your  spending  another  day  with  that  venomous  old  devil, 
Miss  Dawson,  but  I  don't  know  what  else  to  suggest.  I'm 
carrying  as  much  sail  as  I  can  stand  and  I  shall  crack  up, 
if  I  try  to  do  any  more. 

"Now  I've  told  you  everything,  and  it's  all  in  the  strict- 
est confidence.  I  wouldn't  have  told  you  a  month  ago, 
because  I  was  too  much  afraid  of  failing  and  I  don't  like 
anyone — you,  least  of  all — to  see  me  beaten.  It's  only  a 
question  now  whether  I  can  hold  on. 

"Good-night  and  bless  you,  dearest  child.  Don't  im- 
agine that  I  should  be  where  I  am,  if  I  could  be  with  you." 

Idina  read  his  letter  twice  before  she  understood  it,  and 
her  first  feeling  was  one  of  pride  tempered  by  dismay. 
Then  she  read  it  a  third  time,  for  it  seemed  to  present  Sir 
Aylmer  in  a  light  that  was  frankly  incredible.  He  had  been 
a  chivalrous  friend  to  her — at  least,  she  had  received  from 
him  more  than  she  had  any  right  to  expect ;  as  he  said,  one. 
had  to  work  out  one's  own  salvation — his  whole  life  was 
wrapped  up  in  Deryk ;  yet  he  would  seemingly  let  his  son 
walk  out  of  the  house  rather  than  abate  a  particle  of  con- 
trol over  him  at  home.  From  her  seat  in  the  south  tran- 
sept the  following  Sunday  she  watched  with  new  interest, 
as  he  stepped  out  of  his  chair  at  the  door  and  walked 
slowly  up  the  aisle,  a  gaunt,  stooping  figure  with  tightly 
shut  mouth,  sunken  cheeks  and  sombre  eyes;  at  any  mo- 
ment he  might  fall  or  be  found  dead  in  his  chair,  but, 
until  the  end  came,  there  was  in  every  line  of  his  face 
implacable  resolve  to  hold  together  the  dominion  which  in 
the  best  years  of  his  life  he  had  built  out  of  nothing. 

"Wicked  man — wickedness  committed — lawful  and  right 
— souls  alive,"  chirped  Mr.  Marsham. 

Idina  could  not  take  her  eyes  off  the  tall  figure  standing 


144  MIDAS  AND  SON 

at  right  angles  to  her.  His  face  was  unemotional,  it  seemed 
incapable  of  emotion ;  infinitely  strong,  infinitely  tired.  She 
was  frightened  by  the  thought  of  Deryk's  having  to  stand 
up  to  that  inexorable  determination ;  she  never  entered 
Ripley  Court  without  breathing  an  atmosphere  of  despo- 
tism in  the  silent  corridors  and  vast,  empty  rooms ;  the 
servants  were  cowed  and  taciturn.  Suddenly,  with  a 
scarcely  audible  sigh,  he  lowered  himself  and  remained 
seated  until  the  end  of  the  service.  She  watched  him  over 
the  top  of  her  prayer-book,  wondering  what  humility  of 
spirit  he  could  ever  bring  and  what  help  he  would  ever 
deign  to  ask  of  his  Maker.  He  sat  upright  through  the 
prayers,  sermon  and  hymns.  At  the  Benediction  he  covered 
his  eyes  with  one  bony  hand. 

"Peace  of  God — understanding — hearts  and  minds — 
knowledge  and  love — now  and  f'ev'more." 

The  organist  played  the  Dresden  Amen  and  modulated  in- 
to a  Steiner  out-voluntary.  Sir  Aylmer  waited  until  the  con- 
gregation had  left  and  then  rose  with  an  effort  to  his  feet. 
Idina  saw  him  sway,  as  he  turned  into  the  aisle,  and  hurried 
to  his  side ;  he  bowed  with  a  grave  smile  and  leaned  crush- 
ingly  on  her  shoulder  as  far  as  the  door. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  come,"  he  murmured,  breathing  with 
difficulty,  as  he  stepped  into  his  chair.  "I've  been  feeling 
rather  tired  all  day." 

"Will  you  let  me  wheel  you  into  the  house?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  can — "  He  stopped  and  leaned  back  with  closed 
eyes.  "I  spoke  too  soon.  Would  it  be  troubling  you  very 
much  ?" 

She  pushed  the  chair  along  the  flagged  path  to  the  side- 
door  by  the  morning-room,  then  through  the  hall  into  Sir 
Aylmer's  own  wing.  Hatherly  came  out  of  the  study,  as 
they  approached,  and  took  charge.  When  last  she  saw  Sir 
Aylmer,  his  lips  had  gone  blue  and  his  face  a  dusty  grey. 
Hatherly,  after  a  quick  look,  whispered  to  her  that  he  would 
be  all  right  in  a  few  minutes,  and  she  retraced  her  steps 
through  the  hall  and  out  of  the  side  door. 

The    transition    from    stony    resolution    to    cadaverous 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  145 

helplessness  was  sudden  and  frightening.  Idina  paused  by 
the  open  door  of  the  chapel  to  hear  the  last  pealing  notes 
of  the  organ  die  away  and  to  consider  anew  Der}-k's  ir- 
reconcilable pictures  of  his  father  and  himself.  All  reason 
was  on  one  side,  and  yet  she  found  herself  feeling  that  he 
was  wrong ;  anyone  was  wrong  to  resist  a  man  so  ill  as  Sir 
Aylmer;  his  duty  was  to  submit  to  any  terms  or  imposi- 
tions that  might  be  made.  She  could  afford  to  speak 
strongly,  because  she  was  speaking  against  her  own  inter- 
ests. Conceivably  Sir  Aylmer  might  not  look  favourably 
on  herself  as  Deryk's  wife;  as  the  world  appraised  values, 
he  could  make  an  infinitely  better  match,  and,  if  need  be, 
she  would  try  to  accept  the  world's  valuation.  No  one 
would  have  cause  to  regret  it,  if  the  marriage  went  for- 
ward, but  to  Deryk  it  was  not  worth  the  sacrifice  contem- 
plated. 

She  turned  to  look  at  the  great  lines  of  the  house  against 
the  waning  light  of  the  sky.  Its  size  frightened  her  with 
all  that  it  implied  of  wealth,  long  effort  and  far-laid  plans ; 
it  was  the  material  expression  of  Sir  Aylmer  Lancing,  the 
shell  of  personality  which  would  survive  him  and  descend 
to  Deryk  and  Deryk's  son.  She  had  lived  so  long  in  its 
shadow  that  she  had  forgotten  its  size ;  Deryk  was  always 
the  boy  who  had  played  with  her  until  he  went  away  and 
returned  as  the  young  man  who  was  to  fall  in  love  with 
her;  her  mind  had  never  seen  him  as  Sir  Deryk  Lancing, 
the  heir  to  the  Lancing  estate,  however  familiar  the  phrases 
might  be.  She  found  herself  passively  helping  to  break 
the  continuity  of  two  lives ;  she  decided  that  there  could 
be  too  great  a  sacrifice  for  Deryk  to  make  and  force  on  his 
father.  As  she  developed  the  clean-cut,  intellectual  de- 
cision, something  else  cried  out  its  warning  what  her  ac- 
tion would  cost  her.  Fearful  that  doubts  and  compromise 
would  enter  in,  she  hurried  back  to  Ivy  Cottage  and  wrote 
to  Deryk  as  quickly  as  her  pen  would  cover  the  paper,  as 
collectedly,  too,  as  if  she  were  taking  down  a  letter  from 
Miss  Dawson's  dictation. 

"I  have  been  thinking  very  seriously  over  what  you  last 


146  MIDAS  AND  SON 

wrote.  At  first  I  thought  that  you  were  right  and  I  loved 
you  for  your  courage.  It  must  be  very  hard  for  anyone 
like  you  always  to  have  to  do  everything  as  it's  arranged 
for  you,  but  I  don't  see  how  it's  to  be  avoided.  You  see, 
Deryk,  you're  not  like  other  people ;  in  a  way  you're  rather 
like  the  heir  to  the  throne,  and  I  don't  know  whether  you've 
considered  all  that  it  means  to  do  what  you're  doing.  I'm 
not  speaking  of  the  personal  sacrifice,  because  you  must 
have  thought  that  out,  and  I  don't  suppose  you  started  until 
you'd  realised  what  it  would  mean  to  give  up  Ripley  Court 
and  go  through  life  as  quite  a  poor  man.  But  have  you 
thought  about  your  father?  Seriously,  sweetheart,  I  feel 
that  it  will  break  his  heart,  if  you  quarrel  with  him:  it's 
quite  enough  to  kill  him,  and,  even  if  it  doesn't,  everything 
that  he's  hoped  and  dreamed  in  life  will  be  wiped  out.  My 
dear,  I  can  see  the  house  from  where  I'm  writing.  What 
good  is  all  this  gigantic  place,  if  you're  never  there? 

"I  can't  feel  that  you  know  the  sise  of  what  you're  doing ; 
certainly  I'm  sure  that  I'm  not  strong  enough  to  take  the 
responsibility  of  helping.  Your  father  has  been  kindness 
itself  to  me  in  hundreds  of  ways,  but,  even  if  he  hadn't,  I 
shouldn't  dare  help  to  make  a  breach  between  you.  Deryk, 
you  ought  to  come  back  at  once  and  make  it  up  with  him. 
You  know  that  I  love  you  and  always  shall.  If  you  want 
to  marry  me,  you  know  you  can,  darling;  but,  if  your 
father  won't  allow  it,  you  must  forget  all  about  me.  Oh, 
my  sweet  Deryk,  you  can't  think  how  hard  it  is  for  me  to 
write  like  this,  but  I  won't  stand  in  the  way  of  a  reconcilia- 
tion; if  you  ask  him  and  he  refuses,  I  shall  never  reproach 
you.  And,  what  ever  happens,  you  know  that  no  one  ever 
loved  anybody  as  I  love  you." 

She  carried  the  letter  to  post  before  sitting  down  to  sup- 
per. There  was  something  irrevocable  in  the  hollow  sound 
that  it  made  in  falling  to  the  bottom  of  the  box. 

3 

Idina's  letter  was  one  of  many  awaiting  Deryk,  when  he 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  147 

hurried  into  the  County  Club  on  his  way  to  the  opera.  The 
customary  reproachful  note  from  Hatherly  informed  him 
that  Sir  Aylmer  had  undergone  another  serious  attack  and 
ordered  him  peremptorily  back  to  Ripley  Court,  if  he  wished 
to  see  his  father  alive ;  great  emphasis  and  panic  in  the 
first  two  pages  and  then  a  postscript  to  say  that  the  danger 
was  over  for  the  present.  Deryk  crushed  it  into  his  pocket 
with  an  unamiable  smile  and  ordered  the  morning-room 
waiter  to  bring  him  a  whisky  and  soda,  while  he  tore  up 
cards  for  the  first  balls  of  the  season.  Everybody  seemed 
to  have  found  that  he  was  in  London,  everybody  was  invit- 
ing him  to  lunch,  dine,  dance,  as  though  he  had  nothing 
else  in  the  world  to  do.  He  had  hardly  entered  the  room 
before  Gerald  Deganway  fluttered  up,  swinging  his  eye- 
glass and  protesting  that  he  never  saw  Deryk  nowadays. 

"Now,  my  dear,  you've  simply  got  to  dine  here  to-night. 
No,  you're  not  to  make  excuses " 

"No  time  to  dine  anywhere,"  Deryk  interrupted,  gulping 
his  whisky  and  soda.  "I'm  due  at  Covent  Garden  in  six 
minutes  and  I  mustn't  be  late." 

Deganway  looked  at  his  watch,  screwed  his  eye-glass  in 
place  and  stared  at  his  friend. 

"I  say,  old  man,  is  it  really  true  that  you've  become  one 
of  the  world's  workers?  I  believe  you  have,  you  know; 
I'm  always  hearing  of  you  writing  things  and  doing  this 
and  that.  I'm  going  to  the  opera,  too,  but  I  shan't  be 
there  for  ages  and  ages.  Do  tell  me  why  you're  doing 
this!  I'm  intrigued,  positively  intrigued!'' 

Deryk  looked  at  the  smiling,  rather  vacant  face,  the  pre- 
carious eye-glass,  the  pale  hair  brushed  back  from  the 
forehead  without  a  parting;  then  he  turned  away  and  set 
down  his  empty  glass. 

"You've  made  enough  mischief  already,  you  and  Sum- 
mertown,"  he  said. 

"But  is  it  true  that  you've  been  turned  out — it's  not  my 
story,  Deryk;  I  had  it  from  V^al  Arden,  who  had  it " 

"For  the  Lord's  sake  mind  your  own  business,  Gerry," 
exclaimed  Deryk.     "I've  come  up  here  to  work  for  my 


148  MIDAS  AND  SON 

private  satisfaction.  I've  not  been  turned  out  of  anywhere, 
and,  if  everything  were  true  that  you  and  the  other  liars 
were  saying  about  me,  it  would  still  be  my  business  and 
not  yours." 

He  slipped  Idina's  letter  unopened  into  his  pocket  and 
left  the  club.  He  left  Deganway  also,  open-mouthed  and 
affronted,  murmuring  stiffly,  "Liars?  I'll  thank  you  not  to 
call  me  a  liar,  Deryk."  It  was  really  impossible  to  keep 
your  temper  with  people  like  that ;  they  gossiped  and  grim- 
aced and  made  mischief  and  wasted  time  and  dressed  ex- 
quisitely— and  that  was  about  all.  And  it  was  just  what 
he  could  not  stand.  He  would  not  intentionally  insult  a 
man,  but  fellows  like  Summertown  and  Deganway  had 
never  got  to  grips  with  life,  they  had  done  no  work,  they 
had  never  had  to  do  things  quickly  and  creditably  when 
they  were  tired,  there  were  no  boys  waiting  for  their  copy, 
they  never  switched  their  brains  from  one  thing  to  an- 
other against  time,  they  never  accepted  more  and  more 
Work,  knowing  tliat  they  could  never  find  leisure  for  it, 
but  afraid — superstitiously  afraid — to  refuse.  At  night 
they  never  found  themselves  weaving  phrases,  instead  of 
sleeping.  .  .  .  Dear  old  George  Oakleigh  was  really  no 
better.  With  the  kindest  intentions  he  was  always  drawl- 
ing that  the  editor  of  some  Midland  paper  wanted  a  'Lon- 
don Letter,'  it  would  only  take  half  an  hour  to  write — as  if 
the  day  contained  a  hundred  half  hours  It  all  brought 
money,  of  course.  .  .  .  Deryk  wondered  whether  his  father 
had  as  savagely  refused  to  refuse  work  in  the  early  New 
York  days.  .  .  . 

Covent  Garden  was  crowded,  when  he  arrived,  as  it  was 
the  first  night  of  da  Costa's  "Esmeralda,"  which  had  never 
been  payed  in  England  before.  Looking  round  the  house, 
as  the  orchestra  settled  into  place,  he  exchanged  bows  with 
Yolande  Stornaway,  who  was  with  Raymond  in  the  stalls 
behind  him,  and  with  George  Oakleigh,  who  as  usual  was 
occupying  his  uncle's  box  to  the  left.  Two  rows  in  front 
of  him,  Valentine  Arden  elaborately  seated  himself  in  the 
middle  of  three  empty  seats,  resei-ving  one  on  either  side 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  149 

for  hat  and  coat  and  standing  up  long  enough  to  throw  a 
weary,  supercilious  glance  round  the  house  and  to  be  seen 
by  his  friends  without  having  to  acknowledge  their  bows. 
The  Daintons  entered  under  the  escort  of  young  Lionel 
Webster,  and  on  the  opposite  side  he  could  see  Sidney 
Dawson,  an  infrequent  opera-goer,  struggling  to  dispose  of 
his  long  legs  in  comfort.  As  the  overture  began,  Derv'k 
lay  back  limply  with  eyes  half-closed,  surrendering  himself 
to  the  music  and  trying  to  insulate  his  senses  from  the  chill 
of  a  house  which  he  felt  to  be  unsympathetic.  Long  after 
the  first  curtain  fell,  he  lay  still  in  his  trance,  and  only 
when  his  neighbours  began  to  shuffle  and  talk  did  he  drag 
himself  to  his  feet  and  go  out  in  search  of  coffee  and  a 
cigarette. 

Outside  he  found  a  knot  of  critics,  bandying  phrases,  or 
beginning  to  write  their  notices,  while  a  slow-moving  pro- 
cession walked  to  and  fro  examining  the  dresses  and  emit- 
ting safe,  superior  superficialities  on  the  "meretricious 
waltz-rhythm"  and  "Guildhall  School  orchestration."  De- 
ganway  had  just  arrived  and  was  considering,  with  one 
finger  gravely  pressed  to  his  forehead,  in  which  box  he 
could  most  advantageously  be  seen ;  Deryk  slipped  behind 
him  and  was  looking  for  a  quiet  corner  to  read  his  letter, 
when  his  path  was  barred  by  a  woman  who  held  out  her 
hand  and  charged  him  with  forgetting  her. 
,  "Cairo,  Mr.  Lancing?"  she  suggested. 

"Shepheard's  Hotel,  Mrs.  Welman,"   Der}'k  responded. 

She  was  a  pretty,  wistful-looking  woman  with  an  amus- 
ing tongue  and  seductive,  large,  brown  eyes.  It  was  said 
that  at  one  time  she  had  been  on  the  stage  and  had  then 
married  one  of  the  Northumberland  Welmans,  an  elderly, 
rich  invalid,  from  whom  she  seemed  to  live  apart.  Deryk 
had  classified  her  as  an  attractive,  rather  pathetic  foil  to  a 
studiedly  hilarious,  rather  vulgar  party  of  twelve,  which, 
under  the  patronage  of  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann  set  everv'one 
else's  nerves  on  edge.  She  seemed  out  of  her  element  and 
too  good  for  her  company,  seemed,  further,  to  recognise  it 
and  to  face  life  with  a  hard  recklessness,  which  she  was 


I50  MIDAS  AND  SON 

too  proud  to  explain  and  in  which  she  asked  for  no  sym- 
pathy. They  had  talked  long  and  intimately  at  a  dance 
eighteen  months  before,  and,  when  Deryk  asked  how  they 
could  meet  again,  she  had  shrugged  her  shoulders,  told  him 
that  their  paths  were  unlikely  to  cross  and  stirred  him  sur- 
prisingly by  abruptly  begging  him  not  to  believe  everything 
that  he  might  hear  about  her.  For  a  week  he  had  re- 
membered her  very  vividly. 

"If  you're  by  yourself,  I  will  offer  you  the  privilege  of 
my  company,"  she  said.  *'Sir  Adolf's  laid  up  with  gout,  and 
I'm  all  alone  in  his  box.  Or,  better  still,  you  can  rescue 
me  from  this  dreadful  tin-can  noise  and  take  me  some- 
where amusing.  But  perhaps  you  think  it  would  not  be 
wise,"  she  added  timidly. 

"I  should  love  to  join  you,"  Deryk  answered,  "but  I've 
got  to  see  this  thing  out,  I'm  afraid.  I'm  here  profession- 
ally to-night." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  him  in  unaffected  surprise. 

"I  hoped  it  wasn't  really,  really  true,"  she  said.  "Lord 
Summertown  told  me,  of  course " 

"Now,  what  did  he  tell  you  ?"  Deryk  asked,  as  she  paused. 

"Well,  I  know  it's  not  my  business,  but  I  heard  you'd 
quarrelled  with  your  father  and  been  turned  out  of  the 
house."  She  looked  at  him  interrogatively.  "It's  not  true  ? 
I'm  so,  so  glad.  But  why  are  you  doing  this,  if  you  don't 
have  to?" 

"Call  it  eccentricity,"  said  Deryk  carelessly.  "I  never 
said  I  didn't  have  to.  If  you  want  to  know,  I'm  moving 
Heaven  and  earth  to  see  how  much  money  I  can  make." 

He  finished  his  coffee  and  went  back  to  her  box,  where 
he  listened  to  a  lazily  drawled  commentary  on  the  dresses 
and  history  of  their  neighbours,  as  she  arranged  herself 
and  two  shapely  arms  prominently  in  the  front  of  the  box. 
When  the  house  was  thrown  into  darkness,  she  leaned 
towards  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Don't  answer  this,  if  you  don't  want  to,"  she  whispered, 

"but  I  hope  you've  not  had  a — a "     She  hesitated  for 

the  word. 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  151 

"Smash?"  Deryk  suggested.  "Oh,  Lord!  no,  thanks  very 
much." 

"I'm  really,  really  glad !"  She  laughed  nervously.  "I 
hardly  know  you,  it's  nothing  to  do  with  me,  but  I  was 
dreadfully,  dreadfully  upset.  I  wondered  if  there  was 
anything  I  could  do." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  Deryk  pressed  it. 

"It's  most  awfully  kind  of  you,"  he  whispered.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I,  well,  I  sort  of  backed  myself  to  earn 
enough  to  keep  going,  just  as  an  experiment,  you  know, 
and,  as  I  knew  something  about  music.  .  .  ." 

She  bent  forward,  still  leaving  her  hand  in  his.  She  had 
forgotten  that  he  was  half  American  by  blood  and  upbring- 
ing, but,  of  course,  the  son  of  an  American  millionaire 
ahvays  tmis  set  to  work  like  anyone  else. 

"What  fun!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  hope  you're  winning! 
Now  look  here,  I  believe  I  really  can  help  you.  If  you 
can  write  any  sort  of  song  or  dance  for  any  of  the  musical 
comedies  in  London,  Lll  get  it  placed  for  you ;  you  know  I 
used  to  be  on  the  stage?  The  words  won't  matter;  if  you 
can't  write  them  yourself,  I  know  dozens  of  people  who 
will ;  the  music's  the  thing,  and  everybody's  simply  mad 
for  a  new  waltz  song " 

"But  I've  never  written  a  waltz  in  my  life,"  he  objected. 

"Well,  work  up  an  old  hymn-tune.  'Praise  the  Lord, 
ye  Heavens  adore  him'  makes  one  of  the  finest  waltzes  ever 
written.  If  you  set  Abide  with  Me'  to  three-time — I'd  do 
it  myself,  if  I  knew  anything  about  scoring." 

Deryk  thought  over  the  proposal. 

"I  really  don't  know  why  you  should  take  all  this  trouble 
about  me,"  he  said  in  some  embarrassment. 

"I  really,  really  don't  know  why  I  should !"  she  answered 
lightly. 

At  the  end  of  the  opera  Deryk  invited  her  to  come  out 
to  supper  vvdth  him.  Privately  he  hoped  that  she  would  not 
accept,  as  he  wanted  to  write  his  notice  and  get  home  to 
bed ;  he  was  also  living  on  a  strict  daily  allowance  of  money, 
and  supper  for  two,  with  a  bottle  of  champagne,  would 


152  MIDAS  AND  SON 

keep  him  hungry  for  a  month.  She  refused,  telling  him  first 
that  her  husband  did  not  like  her  to  sup  in  a  party  of  two, 
subsequently  admitting  under  pressure  that  this  was  not 
her  real  reason,  that  it  was  sweet  of  him  to  ask  her,  but 
that,  if  he  had  to  work  all  day  to  keep  going,  she  was  not 
going  to  undo  all  his  work  at  night. 

"You've  got  to  come  and  dine  with  me  some  night  at 
Claridge's,"  she  told  him,  "just  to  shew  that  you're  not 
angry  with  me  for  talking  like  this.  Now  you  ought  to  go 
to  bed;  you're  looking  tired  to  death." 

It  was  so  long  since  anyone  had  spoken  to  him  with  her 
little  caress  of  tone  and  phrase,  so  long,  too,  since  he  had 
talked  with  any  woman,  that  she  unsteadied  him  and  he 
did  not  want  to  let  her  go. 

"I  wish  you'd  come,"  he  repeated. 

"Find  my  car  for  me,  like  a  good  boy,"  she  answered, 
and  he  was  left  to  return  alone  to  supper  at  his  club. 

The  long  table  in  the  dining-room  was  crowded,  when 
he  came  in,  so  he  ordered  a  mixed  grill  and  went  upstairs 
to  write  his  critique.  When  he  returned,  there  was  a 
vacant  chair  next  to  Raymond  Stornaway  and  opposite 
Sidney  Dawson,  who  seemed  to  be  elaborating  an  ex- 
haustive comparison  of  ancient  and  modern  opera. 

"Again,  in  tlie  old  days "  Deryk  heard  him  say. 

"Yolande  tells  me  you  know  about  these  things,"  Ray- 
mond intervened,  turning  with  relief  to  Deryk.  "What  did 
you  think  of  it?  Or  perhaps  you  were  too  much  occu- 
pied in  other  ways." 

"I  heard  all  I  wanted,"  Deryk  answered,  as  he  began  his 
supper.  It  was  not  Raymond's  business  if  he  chose  to  sit 
in  Mrs.  Welman's  box,  and,  though  no  harm  had  been  in- 
tended by  the  words,  harm  might  come,  if  they  were  mis- 
understood. In  Cairo  he  had  been  solemnly  warned  by 
Hatherly  that  he  was  playing  with  fire — whatever  that 
might  mean ;  he  had  bitter  reason  to  know  the  nightmare 
way  in  which  unfounded  stories  spread;  with  Dawson  sit- 
ting there  listening  with  ears  strained  and  eyes  bulging  out 
of  his  head,  he  could  count  on  some  lie  reaching  Aston 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  153 

Ripley,  as  it  was  probably  now  being  circulated  by  Degan- 
way  in  the  smoking-room.  None  of  these  fellows  knew 
anything  about  the  woman.  .  .  . 

"I've  known  Mrs.  Welman  for  some  years,"  he  added. 

"I've  known  her  for  some  time,  too,"  said  Raymond.  "I 
don't  know  that  I  should  be  seen  about  with  her  overmuch, 
all  the  same.     You're  not  her  match." 

Having  had  no  mother  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
and  being  brought  up  among  single  men,  Deryk  was  shy 
with  women  and  disposed  to  idealise  them.  Raymond's 
worldly  tone  grated  on  him. 

"I  know  nothing  about  her,"  he  said  shortly. 

"I  do,"  answered  Raymond,  unabashed  by  the  tone. 
"She's  a  collector ;  I've  known  her  on  and  off  for  ten  years, 
first  as  a  dress-maker  of  a  kind,  intermittently  an  actress 
and  always  a  collector.  She's  collected  Harry  Welman, 
she's  collected  that  fellow  Erckmann  and  she'll  collect  you, 
if  you're  not  careful." 

Deryk  was  silent  for  fear  of  being  rude.  As  soon  as  he 
had  finished  supper,  he  walked  home  to  Great  Ormonde 
Street,  leaving  Raymond  to  return  reluctantly  for  a  late 
sitting,  and  prepared  for  bed.  As  he  undressed,  he  dis- 
covered Idina's  letter  in  his  pocket  and  opened  it.  In  his 
overtired  state  it  added  the  last  touch  of  irritation  to  nerves 
which  had  first  been  set  tingling  by  Deganway  and  kept 
tingling  by  Raymond. 

"Oh,  do  for  heaven's  sake  leave  the  past  alone,"  he 
began  in  reply.  "You  may  be  quite  sure  that  I  thought  all 
this  out  before  I  started.  You  don't  come  on  to  the  screen 
at  all,  Dina ;  I've  never  mentioned  your  name  to  the  guv'nor 
and  I  really  know  so  little  of  what  goes  on  inside  his  head 
that  I've  no  idea  what  he'd  say,  if  I  did.  That's  my  diffi- 
culty with  him.  He  sits  like  a  wizard,  and  I  never  know 
what  it's  all  about,  and  so  he'll  try  to  go  on  all  his  life. 
It  might  be  different,  if  I'd  ever  come  a  cropper  but  I 
haven't  and  I'm  not  gomg  to  be  dictated  to.  Well,  one  of 
us  had  to  give  in,  and  it  wasn't  gomg  to  be  me.  It's  not 
the  least  use  talking  about  sacrifices,  nor  about  heirs  to 


154  MIDAS  AND  SON 

thrones.  They  can  always  abdicate,  and  that's  just  what 
I've  done.  As  for  splitting  the  family,  he  can  have  me 
back  as  easily  as  pressing  a  button. 

"Dina,  I'm  really  too  tired  to  argue  any  more.  You're 
a  perfectly  free  agent,  you  can  do  what  you  like,  I  won't 
fetter  you  in  any  way.  But,  if  you  died  to-morrow  or 
eloped  with  Hatherly,  it  wouldn't  make  a  pennyworth  of 
difference.  I  should  go  on  just  as  I'm  going  till  I'd  es- 
tablished my  own  independence.  At  least,  the  only  differ- 
ence it  would  make  would  be  this ;  if  I  thought  that  you'd 
have  married  me  and  that  my  father  had  kept  us  apart,  I'd 
never  speak  to  him  again  in  this  world  or  the  next.  Don't 
make  things  harder  for  me,  darling." 

He  signed  his  name  and  read  through  the  letter.  She 
would  expect  more  endearment  than  the  one  belated  "dar- 
ling," and  he  added  a  postscript.  "Bless  you,  sweetheart! 
When  I  can't  sleep  and  things  seem  more  than  I  can  bear, 
I  think  of  the  wonderful  moment  when  I  talked  about  going 
away  and  you  looked  at  me  with  two  great  big  blue  eyes 
filled  with  tears  and  whispered  that  you  didn't  want  me  to 
go.  I  shall  never  forget  you  as  you  were  then,  with  the 
moon  shining  in  on  you  and  your  poor  little  baby  mouth  all 
trembling.     Good-night,  darling.     Bless  you  always." 

He  was  heavy-eyed  when  the  letter  was  done,  and  the 
sheets  struck  cool  and  refreshing  to  his  tired  body.  For 
an  hour  he  lay  waiting  for  the  over-active  brain  to  grow 
drowsy,  but  all  his  pulses  were  beating  like  hammers,  and 
he  turned  restlessly  from  side  to  side.  After  a  spell  of 
counting  to  a  thousand  and  repeating  scraps  of  poetry,  he 
threw  aside  the  bedclothes  and  fetched  himself  pencils  and 
paper.  Mrs.  Welman's  suggestion  had  come  into  his  mind, 
and  he  amused  himself  by  writing  the  piano  part  of  a  waltz 
adapted  from  "Abide  with  Me ;"  "Lead,  Kindly  Light"  was 
next  attempted,  but  he  felt  too  lazy  to  undertake  the  full 
score,  and  the  unaided  piano  part  was  thin  and  inadequate. 

By  three  o'clock  his  eyes  ached  too  much  to  let  him  work 
longer,  and  he  put  on  trousers,  overcoat  and  boots  and  set 
out  in  search  of  exercise  and  fresh  air.     But  for  a  few 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  155 

scavengers  in  oilskins  and  waders  he  had  the  streets  to 
himself  until  he  reached  Covent  Garden,  where  he  stood  for 
a  few  minutes  watching  the  fruit  and  vegetable  carts  un- 
loading. The  Strand  was  deserted,  but  unkempt  men  lay- 
huddled  under  the  Adelphi  Arches,  and  the  Embankment, 
as  ever,  offered  its  meagre  hospitality  to  the  outcasts  re- 
jected of  every  other  part.  By  the  Boadicea  group  he 
hoisted  himself  on  to  the  parapet  and  sat  watching  the 
water  swirling  and  parting  at  the  piles  of  the  bridge.  Black 
and  Silver  had  been  his  father's  racing  colours,  and,  as  he 
looked  down,  he  began  to  think  again  of  Idina's  letter  and 
his  own  reply.  ...  A  policeman  approached  and  took  up 
his  stand  a  few  yards  away.  "I'm  not  contemplating  sui- 
cide," Deryk  called  out  to  him.  The  man  laughed,  mur- 
mured something  in  return  and  moved  to  the  other  side  of 
the  bridge.  Deryk  waited  on  till  the  wind  struck  cold 
through  his  light  clothes,  then  jumped  down  and  walked 
towards  St.  James'  Park.  The  light  in  the  Clock  Tower 
was  burning,  and  from  time  to  time  a  taxi  drove  away 
from  the  House  (he  flushed  with  anger  at  the  memory  of 
Raymond's  impertinence  at  supper)  ;  otherwise  the  streets 
were  once  more  deserted. 

Half-way  across  the  Horse  Guards  Parade  he  filled  a 
pipe  and  felt  in  his  pockets  for  a  match.  Finding  none,  he 
hurried  in  pursuit  of  a  man  who  was  walking  in  evening 
dress  towards  the  Duke  of  York's  Steps,  smoking  a  cigar 
and  swinging  his  cane.  He  had  hardly  got  out  the  first 
words  of  his  request,  when  he  discovered  his  companion 
to  be  Sidney  Dawson. 

"I  thought  we  both  went  home  to  bed  about  four  hours 
ago !"  exclaimed  Deryk. 

"I  couldn't  sleep,"  Dawson  explained  wearily.  Then  his 
eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  bare  head  and  muffled 
throat  beside  him.  "Couldn't  you  either?  I  wonder  if  it 
was  anything  we  had  at  supper.  Of  course,  my  doctor  tells 
me  I  oughtn't  to  look  at  supper,  but,  when  you've  had  a 
hurried  dinner  at  about  seven,  you  want  something  later 
on,  I'm  sure." 


156  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Deryk  fell  into  step  beside  him,  and  they  walked  side  by 
side  up  the  steps. 

"I  was  just  restless,"  he  said.  "I  don't  mind,  but  it 
makes  you  feel  so  rotten  next  day.'' 

"You  oughtn't  to  be  troubled  at  your  age,"  said  Dawson 
with  bluff  heartiness.  "I  remember  in  the  old  days  we  used 
to  think  nothing  of  staying  up  three  nights  running.  There 
was  a  place  in  Covent  Garden — Betterley,  Boddiley?  I 
don't  recall  the  name — it  always  kept  open  later  than  any- 
where else,  and  after  leaving  the  Formosa — that  was  the 
great  night  club  of  those  days,  you  know — the  fashionable 
thing  was  to  breakfast  off  kidneys  and  beer  at — I  wish 
I  could  remember  the  name.  I  remember  once  dear  old 
Bertie  Selwyn — he  became  Lord  Stoneleigh  afterwards  and 
was  killed  at  Aintree,  trying  to  ride  the  National  when  any 
one  of  us  could  have  certified  that  he  hadn't  been  sober.  .  .  . 
Let  me  see,  I  forget  where  I'd  got  to.  Oh,  about  Bertie 
Selwyn.  Yes.  There  was  Bertie  and  me  and  a  third  man — 
it  may  have  been  Dick  Harley  or  it  may  not ;  it's  of  no  con- 
sequence either  way — we'd  been  seen  at  least  three  morn- 
ings in  succession  breakfasting  at  that  place,  and  Chris  Fer- 
guson bet  us  a  pony  that  we  couldn't  keep  it  up  for  a  week. 
Well,  we  won  the  bet,  but  not  one  of  us  would  go  through 
it  again  for  ten  times  the  money.  When  Saturday  morning 
came " 

He  chuckled  wickedly  to  himself  and  threw  up  his  hands 
into  the  air. 

"They  say  msomnia  doesn't  hurt  you,  if  you  don't  worry 
about  it,"  said  Deryk,  shovelling  a  surreptitious  spadeful 
of  earth  on  to  the  grave  of  Dawson's  story. 

"But  it's  so  hard  not  to  worry,"  Dawson  objected.  'T 
need  all  the  sleep  I  can  get.  My  doctor  keeps  me  on  a  very 
strict  diet — between  ourselves.  Lancing,  I  don't  believe  I 
ever  get  enough  to  eat — if  you  take  to-day,  I  breakfasted 
off  a  piece  of  dry  toast  and  one  cup  of  weak  tea ;  or 
lunch " 

Derv^k  began  to  edge  away  towards  the  Haymarket. 

"You  probably  don't  get  enough  fresh  air,"  he  suggested. 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  157 

'My  dear  fellow,  every  morning  at  eleven " 


"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,''  Deryk  interrupted  hastily.  "I 
don't  know  enough  about  your  case.  And  I'm  certainly 
not  in  a  position  to  lecture  other  people.  Good-night,  Mr. 
Dawson ;  I  really  must  try  to  get  some  sleep  on  my  own 
account." 

While  Deryk  hurried  home,  Dawson  sauntered  discon- 
tentedly along  Pall  Mall  into  St.  James'  Street.  It  was  his 
boast  that  he  never  slept  more  than  three  hours  a  night, 
but  he  would  never  have  confirmed  the  boast  on  oath,  and 
one  night's  serious  insomnia  stood  out  black-figured  in  his 
calendar.  Since  his  precipitate  return  from  Aston  Ripley, 
he  had  been  ceaselessly  reproaching  himself  with  having 
mismanaged  the  whole  proposal.  He  had  taken  the  girl  by 
surprise;  he  had  entirely  failed  to  present  his  case  or  to 
shew  her  what  it  would  mean  to  be  mistress  of  the  Grange 
and  the  house  in  Eaton  Square,  to  lounge  away  a  winter 
abroad,  when  she  felt  inclined,  to  walk  into  shops  and  carry 
away  whatever  attracted  her  whim.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
difference  of  age,  but  he  had  not  explained  how  little  other 
difference  that  would  make ;  she  would  have  her  own 
friends,  he  would  never  enquire  how  she  passed  her  time. 
Anything  that  adoration  and  an  income  of  seven  thousand 
a  year  could  give  her  was  hers ;  in  return  he  only  asked  for 
a  little  affection  and  the  sweetness  of  her  bodily  presence 
in  the  house.  He  had  never  before  felt  that  he  needed  any- 
thing so  badly:  she  must  not,  could  not,  refuse.  .  .  . 

The  arguments  swept  into  his  brain,  ready  phrased,  as 
they  had  signally  failed  to  do  when  he  stood  stammering 
and  repeating  himself  before  her.  Well,  he  had  refused 
to  take  "no"  for  an  answer  and  he  meant  it.  To-morrow 
he  would  tell  her  so  again — or  perhaps  the  next  day.  To- 
morrow, after  his  broken  night,  he  would  not  be  adequately 
convincing.  But  he  would  go  down  to  the  Grange  next  day, 
sleep  in  the  country  air  and  the  following  morning — Well, 
it  would  be  no  good  her  trying  to  refuse  him  again;  he 
would  not  take  another  refusal. 

His  overnight  valour  was  unabated  when  he   sent  his 


158  MIDAS  AND  SON 

man  out  with  a  telegram  for  his  sister.  It  was  improving 
under  steady  rehearsal  when  he  arrived  half  an  hour  before 
dinner  and  strode  with  an  air  of  dominion  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

"We're  becoming  quite  a  jack-in-the-box,"  commented 
Miss  Dawson  fretfully,  as  she  roused  from  slumber.  "Are 
you  staying  the  night,  Sidney,  or  what?" 

"You  remind  me  of  something  I  once  heard  at  a  music- 
hall,"  he  answered  with  the  laugh  that  heralded  an  anec- 
dote. "That  man — you  know,  the  funny  fellow;  I  can't 
remember  his  name — he  was  asked  by  the  indignant  mother, 
'Are  you  going  to  marry  my  daughter  or  what?'  'Oh,'  he 
said,  'I'm  one  of  the  what-ers.'  Rather  good,  eh?"  He 
laughed  immoderately,  repeating  to  himself  ".  .  .  marry  the 
girl  or  what?     Oh,  I'm  one  of  the  what-ers." 

Miss  Dawson  turned  to  him  with  carefully  assumed 
drowsiness. 

"Have  you  come  here  after  that  Penrose  girl,  Sidney?" 
she  asked. 

Her  brother  suddenly  ceased  to  laugh  and  faced  his  sister 
with  lofty  dignity. 

"My  dear,  I  feel  that  we  should  get  on  much  better,  if 
you  minded  your  own  business  and  left  me  to  mind  mine." 

"Tantrums !"  ejaculated  Miss  Dawson  with  a  chuckle. 
Then  her  face  became  solemn.  "Of  course,  it  is  your  busi- 
ness, and,  though  I  am  your  sister,  I  learned  long  ago  not 
to  expect  you  to  listen  to  me.  You  never  do,  no  one  ever 
does  till  it's  too  late.  Then  you  come  like  a  whipped  cur 
and  say,  'You  were  right,  Adeline;  if  only  I'd  followed 
your  advice !'  "  The  scene  was  idealised,  but  Miss  Dawson 
had  painted  it  so  often  that  to  her  eyes  at  least  it  was 
faithful.  "You  won't  listen  to  me,  but  will  you  listen  to 
anyone  else?" 

Sidney  picked  up  the  evening  paper  and  hid  himself 
behind  it.  only  condescending  to  say, 

"I  decline  to  discuss  my  private  affairs  with  anyone." 

Miss  Dawson  was  not  to  be  deterred.  Long  experience 
had  taught  her  that  no  man  or  woman  was  ever  so  en- 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  159 

grossed  in  book  or  paper  as  to  miss  all  the  points  of  an 
oblique  monologue. 

"Of  course,  you  think  it's  all  nonsense,"  she  began  in  a 
comfortable,  irrepressible  voice.  "Perhaps  you  wouldn't 
think  so,  if  ever  you'd  been  present.     Now,  when  I  took 

your  glove  to  Madame  Christine "     "The  Westminster 

Gazette"  flapped  indignantly.  "Oh,  we're  very  wise  and 
clever,  but  I — tell — you — that  your  friend  Charles  Engle- 
field,  zvho'd  been  in  his  grave  fifteen  years.  .  .  ." 

Sidney  Dawson  deliberately  folded  his  paper,  placed  it 
under  one  arm  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"Time  to  dress,"  he  muttered. 

"Charles  Englefield  warned  me  that  you  were  going  to 
make  a  fool  of  yourself !"  cried  Miss  Dawson  shrilly. 

The  door  slammed. 


Throughout  the  night  following  her  letter  to  Deryk, 
Idina  lay  thinking  of  her  loss  ;  in  the  morning,  as  she  walked 
through  the  rain  to  the  Dawsons'  house,  she  began  to  think 
once  more  of  the  future.  Wonderfully  little  comfort  came 
to  her  from  the  sense  that  she  had  done  right ;  wonderfuUy 
little  consolation  that  would  bring  her  in  the  endless  future. 
The  shabby,  rambling  house,  in  long  need  of  decoration; 
the  airless,  over-furnished  rooms,  with  their  ponderous 
mahogany,  their  purposeless  overmantels,  their  massive  pic- 
tures and  museum  of  tasteless  ornaments ;  the  garden,  which 
no  one  replenished  and  for  which  no  one  cared ;  all  ex- 
haled a  heavy  air  of  decay,  as  though  the  cunningly  pre- 
served life  of  an  elder  generation  were  giving  out  in  despite 
of  every  caution  and  artifice.  And  her  function  was  to 
arrest  the  decay ;  for  her  all  existence  was  a  long  ministra- 
tion to  elder  generations,  as  they  gradually  weakened  and 
died.  And  she  was  filled  with  a  fiercely  rebellious  wish  to 
have  a  life  of  her  own  instead  of  dancing  as  a  familiar 
shadow  in  the  background  of  others'  lives. 

For  three  days  she  went  about  her  work  stolid  and  in- 
sensible, winning  a  certain  pleasure  from  facing  the  condi- 


i6o  MIDAS  AND  SON 

tions  of  her  life  steadily,  telling  herself  that  they  would 
never  change.  An  impatient  word  from  Miss  Dawson  was 
received  with  outward  placidity  and  stored  in  the  armoury 
of  self-mortification.  She  no  longer  flushed  or  grew  trem- 
ulously nervous  when  her  employer  spoke  with  silken  bru- 
tality; after  turning  her  back  on  Deryk,  she  was  hardly  to 
notice  what  anyone  else  could  do  to  her.  For  three  days 
she  submitted  with  a  smiHngly  sullen  air  to  her  self-chosen 
fate,  like  a  wilful  child  obeying  a  hateful  order. 

Then  Deryk's  letter  arrived,  and  her  ill-worn  stoicism  fell 
from  her.  She  had  made  the  effort,  her  sacrifice  was  re- 
jected, and  she  could  resist  no  more.  "If  you  died  to-mor- 
row or  eloped  with  Hatherly,  it  wouldn't  make  a  penny- 
worth of  difference."  It  was  not  very  complimentary  of 
him  to  relegate  her  so  frankly  to  the  second  place,  but  at 
least  he  had  taken  all  responsibility  from  her  shoulders,  and 
nothing  that  she  did  or  refrained  from  doing  would  change 
his  attitude  towards  his  father;  she  was  no  longer  preju- 
dicing his  interests  or  making  ill  return  for  Sir  Aylmer's 
generosity. 

On  reaching  the  Grange  she  was  greeted  by  Miss  Dawson 
with  the  words, 

"My  brother  arrived  last  night.  I  hope  that  you  will  re- 
member what  I  was  compelled  to  say  to  you  the  other  day." 

Idina  set  about  her  work  without  answering.  If  anything 
could,  make  her  marry  Sidney,  it  would  be  the  pleasure  of 
revenging  herself  on  his  sister,  and  this  sense  of  exhilarat- 
ing animosity  kept  her  undefeated  throughout  the  morn- 
ing. At  one  o'clock  she  had  a  moment's  uneasy  fear  that 
she  would  be  invited  to  stay  to  luncheon  and  kept  under 
conscious  observation  for  Miss  Dawson's  amusement.  She 
was  allowed  to  go  home  unmolested,  however,  and  Sidney 
had  the  consideration  to  remain  hidden  from  view  at  tea- 
time.  So  long  as  this  tactful  disposition  was  maintained, 
Idina  anticipated  no  trouble ;  and  at  seven  o'clock  she  hur- 
ried home  to  answer  Deryk's  letter.  Hardly  looking  where 
she  was  going,  she  had  run  to  the  lodge  gate  before  a  con- 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  i6i 

cealed  figure  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  wall  and 
gave  her  pause. 

"I  hope  you  will  not  forbid  me  the  pleasure  of  accom- 
panying you  home,"  said  Sidney. 

Idina  made  pretence  of  consulting  her  watch. 

"I'm  in  an  awful  hurry,"  she  said.  "I've  got  letters  to 
write  before  the  post  goes." 

"I  expect  I  can  keep  up,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh, 
breaking  into  stride,  stiff  and  erect,  beside  her.  "Miss 
Penrose,  I  told  you  the  other  day  that  I  wouldn't  take  *no' 
for  an  answer.    I  hope  you  understood  that  I  meant  it." 

Idina  stopped  and  faced  him  with  pleading  eyes. 

"I  beg  you  not  to  ask  me  again !"  she  implored.  "I 
wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  world,  but  my  answer  will  always 
be  the  same.  Why  can't  we  just  go  on  being  friends,  why 
will  you ?" 

"Because  I  want  something  much  more  than  that,"  he 
answered  easily.  "Look  here,  Idina — I'm  not  going  to  ask 
leave  to  call  you  that ! — when  I  talked  to  you  the  other 
night,  I  took  you  by  surprise.  What  you've  got  to  do  is  to 
think  quite  calmly  over  what  I'm  proposing " 

He  broke  up  her  attitude  of  supplication  by  turning  and 
walking  down  the  road,  inviting  her  with  a  gesture  to  come 
with  him. 

"I  honestly  never  thought  that  I  should  ask  anyone  to 
marry  me — until  I  met  you,"  he  began,  with  a  mixture  of 
boastfulness  and  graceful,  necessary  surrender.  "But,  when 
I  found  you  grown  up  into  a  woman " 

With  the  good-humour  of  perfect  assurance  he  unhur- 
riedly delivered  himself  of  the  speeches  which  he  had  been 
rehearsing  since  their  last  meeting;  the  offer  was  presented 
in  all  its  attractivness — independence,  wealth,  a  life  that 
would  be  whatever  she  chose  to  make  it,  the  worship  and 
service  of  a  devoted  husband ;  and,  in  return,  a  smile  of 
affection.  The  case  to  be  argued  was  so  strong  in  itself 
that  he  spoke  almost  disinterestedly,  as  though  counselling 
her  for  her  own  and  another  man's  sake.  Was  it  so  hard 
for  her  of  all  people,  with  her  warm,  kindly  heart,  to  spare 


i62  MIDAS  AND  SON 

him  a  comer  of  it?  God  knows,  he  was  not  vain  enough 
to  have  any  illusions  left  about  himself,  but  she  would  find 
him  infinitely  affectionate,  obedient  to  her  wishes.  .  .  .  He 
was  amazed  at  the  range  of  his  own  domestic  virtues.  .  .  . 
they  were  barely  exhausted  when  he  found  himself  oppo- 
site the  gate  of  Ivy  Cottage. 

Idina  looked  reflectively  at  his  thin,  over-spruce  figure 
and  carefully  chosen  clothes.  As  he  stood,  hat  in  hand,  his 
carefully  brushed  hair  had  not  even  begun  to  change  its 
colour;  his  complexion  was  unwholesome,  but  his  face  had 
kept  its  shape  and  was  not  unduly  lined.  She  could  not 
say  of  any  one  feature  that  it  spoiled  the  cherished  illusion, 
but  something  faded  and  worn,  something  old  and  tired 
tinder  the  strutting  exterior  refused  to  be  hidden  for  all  his 
eflForts.  He  was  like  an  old  actor  playing  a  boy's  part  with 
a  fire  and  activity  that  yet  somehow  failed  to  compensate  a 
poor  make-up. 

"I  can't  change  what  I've  said,"  she  told  him,  lowering 
her  eyes. 

"I've  told  you  I  won't  take  that  for  an  answer,"  he 
laughed. 

"But  you  really  must.  And,  oh,  please!  please  don't  talk 
to  me  about  this  again !  If  you  knew  how  miserable  it  made 
me  feel " 

Sidney's  voice  became  low  and  caressing. 

"Why  won't  you  marry  me,  Idina?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  love  you !  I — I  hardly  know  you,"  she  added, 
trying  to  soften  the  effect  of  the  first  words. 

"But  I've  not  asked  you  to  love  me,"  he  whispered.  "I've 
done  nothing  to  deserve  it,  I  don't  know  why  you  should. 
I  want  you  to  let  me  take  care  of  you  and  make  you  as 
happy  as  you  have  a  right  to  be.  Then — then!  Well, 
then,  if  you  found  you  were  getting  just  the  least  little  bit 
fond  of  me " 

Idina  gave  a  quick  shake  of  the  head  and  held  out  her 
hand  to  him. 

"I  can't,"  she  said.     "It's  no  good,  and  you  only  make 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  163 

me  feel  an  ungrateful  beast.  .  .  .  Good-bye;  and  please 
don't — you  know — again." 

He  took  her  hand  and  raised  it  with  an  elaborate  gesture 
to  his  lips,  despite  a  perceptible  pull  against  him. 

"You  say  you  hardly  know  me !"  he  cried  with  the  same 
unquenchable  gaiety  he  had  adopted  throughout  their  time 
together,  "Idina,  your  most  devoted  servant.  I  shall  be 
down  here  for  some  time,  and  it  will  be  my  exquisite  privi- 
lege to  make  myself  better  known  to  you." 

He  released  her  hand  and,  with  a  bow  from  the  waist, 
walked  towards  the  Grange.  Idina  hurried  indoors  and 
turned  the  key  for  fear  he  should  come  back.  The  light, 
dashing  manner  in  courtship  was  but  one  degree  less  dis- 
composing than  the  tragic  vein  of  their  first  encounter; 
what  his  next  mood  was  likely  to  be  she  had  no  means  of 
guessing,  but  he  was  apparently  determined  to  renew  his 
addresses  at  alarmingly  short  intervals  until  she  accepted 
him  or  married  someone  else  or  ran  away  from  Aston  Rip- 
ley and  went  into  hiding.  He  was  incapable  of  taking  her 
at  her  word.  ...     It  was  persecution.  .  .  . 

From  a  mood  of  pity  and  terrified  embarrassment  she 
found  herself  passing  to  one  of  indignation.  Then  she 
began  to  wonder  longingly  how  soon  she  could  silence  him 
by  announcing  her  engagement  to  Deryk.  As  soon  as  he 
was  ready  for  her,  of  course,  she  would  come  to  him :  the 
sooner  the  better:  the  moment  that  he  was  making  enough 
money  to  put  a  roof  over  their  heads  and  prove  his  inde- 
pendence of  Sir  Aylmer :  to-morrow :  to-day.  .  .  .  She 
laughed  at  her  own  impatience,  but  her  knees  were  still 
trembling  from  the  nervous  excitement  of  the  last  en- 
counter. She  could  at  least  tell  Deryk  that  she  would  share 
his  hardships  and  struggles  with  him,  that  she  could  help 
him,  work  for  him,  that  she  did  not  want  luxury,  that  she 
only  wanted  to  be  with  him.  .  .  . 

Going  to  the  writing-table  she  read  his  letter  once  again. 

"Darling  Deryk,"  she  wrote  in  reply.  "I  won't  argue ;  I 
don't  want  to;  I'm  much  too  happy  to  do  anything  except 
say,  'Bless  you,  and  best  of  luck ;'  I  know  your  father  will 


1 64  MIDAS  AND  SON 

come  round  to  your  view  when  you  shew  him  that  you  can 
get  on  without  him,  because,  you  see,  Deryk,  he  can't  get  on 
without  you.  Perhaps  he's  not  the  only  one !  Oh,  dearest, 
I  do  so  badly  want  to  see  you !  It's  not  to  argue  or  make 
things  harder:  perhaps  it  may  make  things  just  the  ween- 
iest  bit  easier,  but  you're  the  person  to  judge  that.  Don't 
you  think  you  could  come  down  just  for  a  few  hours?  I 
could  go  on  and  on  for  years,  if  I  just  saw  you  once  again, 
but  there's  something  I  must  say,  and  I  somehow  feel  that 
I  can't  put  it  in  a  letter." 

There  was  a  delay  of  three  days  before  Deryk  wrote 
again,  and  his  letter  told  her  a  little  impatiently  that  he  was 
unable  to  spare  even  half  a  day  from  his  work.  Idina 
pouted,  as  she  read;  Deryk  and  she  had  not  set  eyes  on 
each  other  since  the  night  of  the  ball,  and  she  could  not 
help  feeling  that,  if  he  really  wanted  to  see  her,  he  could 
make  time :  he  seemed  to  subordinate  her  entirely  to  his 
general  war  of  independence.  ...  In  the  three  days  Sid- 
ney Dawson  had  proposed  twice  more,  with  the  gay  assur- 
ance of  a  man  who  could  afford  to  wait  and  knew  that 
waiting  would  bring  him  all  that  he  desired.  Idina  took  to 
escaping  through  the  orchard  of  the  Grange  and  moving  in 
cover  to  Ivy  Cottage  through  the  park  of  Ripley  Court, 
but,  after  eluding  him  once,  she  was  to  find  him  the  next 
night  mounting  guard  over  the  gate  of  her  garden  and 
barring  her  way  to  the  house  until  he  had  discharged  his 
latest  proposal. 

The  following  day  she  asked  Miss  Dawson  for  leave  of 
absence  for  a  few  hours.  As  Deryk  would  not  come  to  her, 
she  telegraphed  to  say  that  she  was  on  her  way  to  London 
and  would  meet  him  at  the  County  Club.  The  feeling  that 
she  would  not  come  up  from  Aston  Ripley  without  good 
cause  quelled  his  tendency  to  grumble  at  the  loss  of  essen- 
tial time.  They  dined  early  at  a  restaurant  in  Soho,  and 
Idina  with  some  trepidation  told  him  of  Sidney's  proposal. 
The  account  was  made  as  colourless  as  possible,  and  she 
felt  that  she  was  perhaps  unwarrantably  betraying  a  con- 
fidence, but  it  seemed  only  fair  for  Deryk  to  know,  and 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  165 

she  had  an  idea  that  a  girl  in  her  position  always  did  tell. 
Deryk  was  so  much  infuriated  that  she  cut  her  story  short 
at  the  first  proposal. 

"I  hope  you  let  him  have  it  between  the  eyes,"  he  fumed. 
"It's  an  insult !    A  doddering,  broken-down " 

"Don't  abuse  him,  Deryk,"  she  begged.  "He — he  meant 
to  be  kind." 

"It's  the  damnedest  insolence  I've  ever  heard  of !  A 
man  with  one  foot  in  the  grave,  a  fellow  who  wears  stays, 
having  the  presumption  to  come  and  ask  you — what  did  you 
tell  him,  Dina?" 

"Oh,  I  said  it  was  impossible." 

Deryk  breathed  heavily, 

"I  should  dam'  well  think  it  was.  So  that's  what's  been 
worrying  you  ?"  he  went  on  more  gently. 

"Yes,  partly.  He's  still  down  there,  Deryk;  if — if  he 
says  anything  again  ?" 

"Give  him  a  back-hander  across  the  mouth,"  he  suggested. 
"But,  if  you  told  him  off  properly,  he'll  keep  out  of  the 
way." 

"I  don't  believe  he  will,"  she  murmured;  then,  deciding 
to  let  Deryk  know  everything,  "It  wasn't  only  once.  .  .  ." 

"You  mean  that  you  let  him ?" 

"I  can't  help  it,  Deryk!"  she  cried  in  distress.  "I've  told 
him  again  and  again,  but  he  just  laughs  and  comes  back. 
What  am  I  to  say?  I — I — I — He  makes  me  afraid  to  put 
my  nose  out  of  doors!     Can't  you ?" 

"Can't  I  what?" 

"Can't  you  do  something?  Can't  you  tell  him  that  we — 
oh,  Deryk,  how  much  longer  are  you  going  to  wait? 
You've  surely  been  going  on  long  enough  to  prove  what 
you  can  do.  Why  can't  we  start  now — I  don't  care  how 
much  of  a  struggle  it  is,  I  could  help  you,  we  should  win 
through,  I  know  we  should !" 

Deryk's  expression  hardened. 

"It's  out  of  the  question,"  he  told  her.  "On  two  months  ? 
And  such  luck  as  not  one  man  in  a  thousand  ever  gets? 
I'm  quoting  George  Oakleigh ;  he  frankly  says  that  it's  not 


1 66  MIDAS  AND  SON 

a  fair  test.  Why,  it's  lunacy !  If  I  fell  ill  and  had  to  chuck 
work  for  a  few  weeks,  you'd  hardly  have  enough  to  live 
on." 

"I  wouldn't  mind  that,  Deryk." 

"Perhaps  you  would  when  you'd  tried  it."  He  found  it 
difficult  to  speak  patiently  or  with  kindness  so  long  as  she 
failed  to  recognise  how  hard  he  had  been  compelled  to 
work  and  how  precarious  his  victory  still  was.  Women 
were  so  amazingly  unpractical.  She  seemed  to  think  that 
love  and  a  blind  readiness  to  face  risks  hand  in  hand  some- 
how made  the  risks  less  great.  "There's  nothing  to  be 
done  yet  awhile,"  he  added.  "In  four  months  I  propose  to 
see  my  father,  but  I  shan't  have  enough  powder  and  shot 
till  then." 

Idina  looked  at  her  watch  and  began  to  draw  on  her 
gloves,  thankful  that  she  had  a  train  to  catch.  Deryk  had 
wounded  her  again  and  again  in  their  short  time  together. 
Instead  of  protecting  her  from  Sidney's  solicitations,  he 
seemed  to  think  that  it  was  all  her  fault  for  not  speaking 
decisively  enough ;  instead  of  being  made  glad  by  her  offer 
to  share  his  life,  however  little  he  had  to  give  her,  he  dis- 
missed the  offer  as  a  piece  of  lunacy.  More  strongly  than 
ever  before  she  felt  that  Deryk  was  absorbed  first  and 
last  in  an  obstinate  struggle  v.il-i  hij  father  and  that  she 
was  but  incidental  to  it,  perhaps  superfluous. 

"You  haven't  helped  me  very  much,"  she  sighed,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  sleeve,  as  they  drove  to  Victoria. 

"What  can  I  do,  darling?"  he  asked.  The  strip  of  mirror 
reflected  his  face,  as  he  leaned  over  to  kiss  !.jr,  and  he  mar- 
velled afresh  that  there  v/as  no  outward  trace  of  the  sleep- 
less nights  and  restless,  nervous  day:;  through  which  he  had 
passed.  His  eyes  were  burning,  and  the  back  of  his  head 
and  neck  felt  bruised.  "/  can't  dictate  to  Dawson  what 
he's  to  say  to  you.  I  haven't  the  right." 
"I'd  give  you  the  right,"  she  whispered. 
He  drew  back  involuntarily,  wondering  how  long  he 
would  be  able  to  resist  the  temptation.  He  knew  that  he 
•did  right  in  not  going  near  Aston  Ripley;  only  when  he 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  167 

jvas  working  and  at  a  distance  could  he  be  sure  of  himself. 

"Not  until  I'm  in  a  state  to  receive  it,"  he  answered, 
withdrawing  his  hand.  "I  can't,  Dina;  surely  you  must 
see?  No  man's  justified  in  tying  a  girl  to  him  till  he  sees 
reasonable  likelihood  of  being  able  to  support  her;  I  tell 
you  quite  deliberately  that  I'm  not  in  sight  of  that  yet.  It — 
it  doesn't  make  things  any  easier,  you  know,  if  we're  not 
patient." 

Idina  bit  her  lip  and  said  nothing.  As  the  taj<i  drove 
into  Victoria,  she  asked  herself  what  good  she  had  done, 
what  good  she  ever  thought  she  could  do.  When  he  had 
found  her  a  carriage,  they  stood  talking  until  the  gtiard 
ordered  her  inside  and  slammed  the  door;  as  the  train 
began  to  move,  she  leaned  out  and  whispered,  "Good-bye, 
darling;  you  do  love  me  a  little  bit,  don't  you?" 

Deryk  laughed  and  waved  good-bye. 

"Just  a  little  bit,"  he  cried.  Then  he  turned  and  made 
his  way  back  to  his  rooms ;  the  interview  had  cost  him 
three  hours'  work.  .  .  . 

In  the  week  following  her  return  from  London,  Idina 
received  two  more  proposals  from  Sidney.  Determined 
that  Deryk  should  have  no  justification  for  thinking  that 
she  was  to  blame  for  their  continuance,  she  stood  her  ground 
and  reminded  the  importunate  suitor  of  his  previous  pro- 
posals, her  invariable  refusal  and  equally  invariable  request 
not  to  have  the  proposal  repeated ;  she  then  asked  him 
whether  it  was  chivalrous  to  press  unwelcome  attentions 
on  one  who  was  in  a  position  of  dependence.  Sidney  was 
put  out  of  countenance  by  her  use  of  the  word  "chival- 
rous;" he  had  imagined  himself  a  very  Bayard  to  her  and 
was  galled  by  her  insistence  on  regarding  him  as  a  perse- 
cutor. After  a  few  moments,  however,  his  assurance  re- 
turned, and  he  told  her  that  it  was  the  right  and  duty  of 
every  man  to  offer  himself,  his  service,  all  that  he  had  or 
was,  to  the  woman  whom  he  loved.  Thereafter  Idina  en- 
joyed four  days'  respite. 

As  she  came  and  went  and  moved  about  the  house,  how- 
ever, Sidney's  eyes  followed  her,  until  she  had  an  uncom- 


i68  MIDAS  AND  SON 

fortable  sense  that  he  was  mentally  undressing  her;  he 
methodically  transferred  himself  from  one  room  to  another 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  she  had  moved,  as  though  to 
pursue  some  fragrance  of  her  person,  but  he  no  longer  lay 
in  wait  for  her,  no  longer  declaimed  his  set  speeches.  Idina 
scored  a  double  advantage  by  the  change ;  not  only  was  she 
free  of  his  embarrassing  attentions,  but  Miss  Dawson 
neitlier  dared  nor  cared  to  be  spiteful  in  her  brother's  pres- 
ence. For  four  days — the  only  four  days  since  she  came 
to  the  Grange — Idina  began  her  work  without  foreboding 
and  ended  it  witliout  having  been  made  to  suflFer.  On  the 
fifth  day  Sidney  left  the  drawing-room  immediately  after 
tea  and  was  waiting  for  her  half-way  down  the  drive. 

"You  can  guess  what  brings  me  here  ?"  he  began. 

"I  hoped  that  you  were  not  going  to  discuss  this  again," 
she  answered,  feeling  her  heart  involuntarily  quicken  its 
beat. 

"You  can  hardly  have  expected  it,  dear  lady.  You  have 
only  to  see  yourself  as  I  see  you " 

Idina  faced  him  with  the  same  steadiness  as  on  the  last 
occasion. 

"Mr.  Dawson,  either  you  must  promise  never  to  re-open 
this  discussion,  or  I  must  go  away.  I  don't  want  to  do 
that,  it  is  very  inconvenient,  very  hard.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  do 
it  if  you  force  me  to.    Will  you  promise?" 

"I  cannot,  Idina.  Egad!  I  should  be  a  poor  lover  if 
I  let  myself  be  discouraged  into  a  promise  of  that  kind." 

Idina  turned  and  hurried  down  the  drive. 

"Then  I  shall  go  away!" 

"Sweet  child,  I  shall  follow  you!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Don't  you  care  for  me — you  say  you  do — don't  you 
care  for  me  enough  to  leave  me  alone,  when  I  ask  you  to  ?" 

The  falsetto  gaiety  died  out  of  Sidney's  manner. 

"I  care  for  you  so  much  that  I  can't  leave  you  alone !" 
he  cried.  In  the  haggard  face  and  hungry  eyes  the  girl 
traced  for  the  first  time  a  passion  which  his  mock-debonair 
gaiety  was  unable  to  hide.     She  was  filled  with  pity  and 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  169 

fear  in  equal  measure;  for  the  first  time  she  understood 
that,  though  his  brain  might  take  in  a  refusal,  the  rest  of 
him  never  had  and  never  would ;  her  words  were  simply 
words ;  so  would  Deryk's  have  been,  if  she  had  succeeded 
in  winning  his  intervention.  Without  conscious  thought 
she  appreciated  that  the  only  way  of  dealing  with  the  physi- 
cal hunger  and  infatuation  in  his  eyes  was  to  escape  from 
his  reach. 

"I'll  go  away  for  a  week,"  he  said  with  a  return  of  his 
old  jauntiness.  "It's  not  to  be  hoped  that  you'll  miss  me, 
but  you'll  have  time  to  think  over  what  you're  throwing 
away  with  such  bewitching  obstinacy.  And,  when  I  come 
back,  I  hope  you'll  know  how  to  deal  with  a  poor  devil 
whose  only  wish  is  to  make  you  happy  and  whose  only 
fault  is  that  he's  fallen  head  over  ears  in  love  with  you. 
Au  revoir,  little  lady;  we  meet  in  a  week's  time." 

With  a  last  gallant  smile  and  a  kiss  of  her  finger-tips  he 
turned  back  towards  his  own  house.  As  he  walked  moodily 
through  the  garden,  the  prospect  of  dining  alone  with  his 
sister  and  under  her  watchful,  malicious  eyes  was  more 
than. he  could  bear;  he  wandered,  hardly  looking  where  he 
was  going,  out  of  his  own  grounds  and  through  the  woods 
of  Ripley  Court  into  the  park.  There  must  be  a  right  way 
of  approaching  the  girl,  but  he  had  so  far  failed  to  find  it ; 
he  had  to  find  it  now ;  girls  in  her  dependent  position,  un- 
broken to  their  work  and  disliking  it,  did  not  as  a  rule 
throw  away  what  he  was  offering.  It  was  not  a  question  of 
age  or  appearance ;  he  was  quite  comfortable  on  that  score ; 
she  was  not  already  engaged  and  could  have  no  opportu- 
nity of  indulging  romantic  dreams.  For  the  hundredth 
time  he  told  himself  that  it  was  inexperience  and  want  of 
imagination ;  she  did  not  know,  she  did  not  know  the  life 
of  clothes  and  jewels,  parties  and  theatres,  everything  that 
girls  cared  for,  that  he  was  preparing  for  her.  He  had  not 
interested  her  yet.  .  .  . 

His  feet  were  on  rising  ground,  and  he  looked  up  to  find 
himself  mounting  the  knoll  opposite  Ivy  Cottage.  He  had 
no  idea  of  the  time,  but  lights  were  shining  through  the  un- 


I70  MIDAS  AND  SON 

blinded  windows,  and  he  could  see  Idina  finishing  her  sup- 
per and  getting  up  to  clear  the  table.  That  she  should  have 
to  lay  and  clear  her  own  table!  She  was  lost  to  view  for 
a  time,  but  reappeared  and  sat  down  to  write  letters.  Half 
an  hour,  an  hour  later  she  came  out  bare-headed  and  ran 
down  to  the  pillar-box  by  the  west  lodge  gate  of  Ripley 
Court,  He  waited,  sitting  on  a  fallen  trunk,  until  she  came 
up  the  hill  again  and  disappeared  inside  the  house.  The  door 
was  bolted,  the  blind  drawn  and  the  lights  turned  out  down- 
stairs ;  a  moment  later  the  dark  front  of  the  house  was 
again  broken  by  two  yellow  squares,  Idina  appeared  in  sight 
for  a  moment  and  pulled  the  curtains.  For  ten  minutes  he 
watched  her  shadow  moving  up  and  down;  her  arms  were 
joined  above  her  head,  and  she  was  seen  to  be  brushing  her 
hair;  then  the  lights  upstairs  vanished  abruptly.  Careless 
of  the  dew,  he  sat  on  wondering  why  the  two  of  them 
should  live  apart,  separated  by  a  few  yards,  when  each  was 
essential  to  tlie  other's  happiness.  He  pictured  her  lying 
with  her  wonderful  flaxen  hair  loose  on  the  pillow,  her 
cheeks  warmly  flushed,  smiling  in  her  sleep — alone  and 
wasted,  when  he  would  give  ten  years  of  his  life  to  kiss  her 
lips  once.  .  .  . 

The  sound  of  men's  voices  and  the  ring  of  feet  on  the 
road  broke  into  his  reverie;  he  awoke  to  find  himself 
cramped  and  shivering  and,  peering  at  his  watch  in  the 
moonlight,  was  amazed  to  find  that  the  time  was  after  two. 
He  stumbled  out  of  the  plantation  and  was  twenty  yards 
down  the  road,  when  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
the  two  men  whose  voices  he  had  heard, 

"He'll  be  all  right,  when  you've  given  him  the  stuflF  I'm 
going  to  make  up,"  one  was  saying.  "As  right  as  he  ever 
is." 

Sidney  recognised  the  village  doctor  from  Aston  Ripley. 

"Good-night,  Forsyte,"  he  mumbled. 

"Is  that  Dawson?"  enquired  the  doctor,  stopping  short, 
"I  say,  your  sister's  been  telephoning  round  for  you ; 
wanted  to  know  if  you  were  dining  with  me,  I  said  I 
hadn't  the  honour.    She  seemed  to  be  expecting  you." 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  171 

"She  rang  us  up,  too,"  said  Hatherly,  coming  forward. 
*'I  said  I  hadn't  seen  you  for  some  time." 

"I've  only  been  having  a  walk,"  said  Sidney  with  some 
impatience. 

"She  just  seemed  a  bit  nervous,"  Hatherly  remarked. 
"Well,  we  must  be  getting  on.    Good-night,  Dawson." 

"Good-night,  good-night!"  he  answered.  "I  hope  For- 
syte's not  a  bird  of  ill-omen,"  he  went  on  to  Hatherly. 
"Nothing  serious?    Good." 

He  marched  stiffly  erect  into  the  night,  while  the  other 
two  hurried  on  towards  the  doctor's  house. 

"Has  he  been  serenading  the  fair  Miss  Penrose,  do  you 
imagine?"  asked  Forsyte  with  a  smile.  "He's  got  it  rather 
badly,  everyone  tells  me." 

"Men  of  that  age  do,"  said  Hatherly.  "Well,  she  might 
do  worse." 

Forsyte  was  professionally  silent ;  if  Sidney  Dawson  were 
going  the  way  of  his  sister,  his  father  and  his  grandfather, 
he  could  not  look  forward  to  many  years  of  health:  he 
ought  not  to  dream  of  asking  any  girl  to  marry  a  man  who 
would  spend  the  rest  of  his  hfe  as  an  invalid. 

5 

Her  last  interview  with  Dawson  and  the  uncertainty  of 
her  future  at  Deryk's  hands  forced  Idina  to  act  on  her  own 
initiative.  She  wrote  to  her  former  employment  bureau  in 
Regent  Street  for  particulars  of  vacant  situations  for 
companions,  secretaries  or  governesses,  enclosing  the  usual 
booking-fee  and  submitting  her  qualifications.  She  had  a 
week  in  which  to  look  round  before  Sidney  returned  and, 
if  need  be,  she  was  prepared  to  forego  a  month's  salary 
in  order  to  get  away.  However  disheartening  the  new  pros- 
pect, she  could  no  longer  subject  herself  to  thrice  weekly 
proposals,  alternating  with  short  absences  on  Sidney's  part 
in  which  Miss  Dawson  vented  the  sarcasms  which  her 
brother's  presence  had  held  in  check. 

She  found  Miss  Dawson  next  morning  seated  as  usual 
beside  a  bright  fire  in  the  morning-room,  with  her  letters 


172  MIDAS  AND  SON 

and  paper-knife  before  her  and  a  waste-paper  basket  by  her 
foot-stool.  There  was  no  reply  to  Idina's  "good-morning" 
and  the  girl  busied  herself  with  arranging  the  writing-table 
and  preparing  for  the  day's  dictation.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  passed  before  Miss  Dawson  seemed  aware  of  her 
presence;  then,  without  speaking,  she  held  out  an  envelope. 
Idina  took  it  and  found  inside  a  cheque  for  one  month's 
salary. 

"But  you've  paid  me  already,"  she  said. 

"If  we  look,  we  shall  see  it's  for  the  present  month,"  said 
Miss  Dawson.  "It  is  not  expected  that  this  kind  of  thing 
can  go  on,  surely." 

Idina  stared  from  the  cheque  to  her  employer:  some 
moments  passed  before  she  realised  that  she  was  being  dis- 
missed. 

"When  do  you  wish  me  to  go  ?"  she  asked  quietly. 

Miss  Dawson  turned  to  her  with  brightly  gleaming  eyes. 

"We've  not  a  word  to  say?  Perhaps  we're  wise.  But 
no  regret,  no  attempt  to  draw  back ?" 

"I  don't  know  why  you're  getting  rid  of  me,"  said  Idina, 
"but  I  suppose  you're  quite  within  your  rights.  I've  done 
my  best,  but  I  told  you,  when  you  engaged  me,  that  I'd 
no  experience " 

Miss  Dawson  dammed  the  deferential  stream. 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  know  all  about  you?"  she  cried. 
"Do  you  think  I  haven't  eyes  in  my  head  to  see  the  way 
you've  been  going  on?  He'd  never  have  done  it,  if  you 
hadn't  led  him  on ;  he's  not  that  kind  of  man." 

Idina  folded  the  cheque  and  slipped  it  into  her  belt. 

"When  do  you  wish  me  to  go  ?"  she  repeated. 

"You  thought  nobody  saw,  nobody  cared,"  went  on  Miss 
Dawson.  "It  seems  the  whole  village  was  talking  about 
you.  My  own  servants — d'you  think  they  don't  know  when 
their  master  goes  out  at  seven  and  has  to  be  let  in  at  three 
next  morning?" 

Idina  flushed  scarlet,  as  Miss  Dawson's  meaning  became 
clear  to  her. 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  173 

"How  dare  you?"  she  cried.  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself " 

"For  finding  out?"  The  old  woman's  voice  rose  shrilly, 
malice  blending  with  indignation.  "We  ought  to  have  been 
more  circumspect.  People  saw  him  going  out,  people  saw 
him  coming  away,  people  saw  him  being  let  in.  He  wouldn't 
marry  us  for  all  our  plans,  so  we  thought  we'd  make  him." 
Her  voice  lost  its  last  trace  of  moral  indignation  and  became 
triumphant.  "Well,  he  won't!  You're  not  the  first  or  the 
second,"  she  cried  inconsistently.  "Sidney's  always  been 
a  favourite,  but  he  never  married  any  of  them  and  he  won't 
marry  you.  No  man  would,  after  you've  shewn  yourself 
in  your  true  colours;  it  would  be  their  turn  to-day  and 
someone  else's  to-morrow.  So  I  told  him,  quite  plainly. 
Oh,  he  pretended  to  be  angry,  but  he  knew  I  was  right." 

Idina  was  crying  with  long,  quivering  sobs  of  amazement 
and  horror.  The  old  woman  looked  at  her  for  a  moment 
in  the  heady  sensual  enjoyment  of  causing  pain. 

"Crying  won't  undo  it,"  she  observed  at  length. 

The  girl  steadied  herself  and  walked  slowly  up  to  the 
old  woman's  chair. 

"You  dirty,  wicked  old  wretch !"  she  cried,  throwing  self- 
control  to  the  winds.  "It's  a  lie,  a  lie,  a  he!  D'you  hear? 
You're  lying!  You  know  you're  lying!"  Miss  Dawson 
leaned  out  of  her  chair  and  pulled  the  bell.  Idina  steadied 
herself  involuntarily.  "I'd  kill  you  if  I  could,  you  horrible, 
dirty-minded " 

Her  voice  broke,  and  she  hurried  from  the  room.  With- 
out waiting  to  get  her  hat  or  coat  on  she  ran  down  the 
drive  and  never  stopped  until  she  was  back  in  Ivy  Cottage. 
The  woman  who  came  in  each  morning  to  clean  the  house 
knew  better  than  to  ask  questions,  but  Idina  explained 
with  a  composure  that  surprised  herself  that  she  had 
to  go  suddenly  to  London  and  might  not  be  back  for  some 
days.  One  of  her  father's  suitcases  held  all  the  clothes 
that  she  would  require,  and,  laden  with  this,  she  made  her 
way  to  the  station  in  time  to  catch  the  mid-day  train.  An 
unexpected  dry  sob  still  shook  her  from  time  to  time,  and 


174  MIDAS  AND  SON 

in  her  loneliness  she  thought  for  a  moment  of  asking  Deryk 
to  meet  her ;  she  knew,  however,  that  he  would  be  busy, 
and  there  was  no  need  to  see  him  until  her  plans  were  less 
disordered.  Instead,  she  addressed  a  note  to  the  County 
Club,  telling  him  that  she  had  left  Miss  Dawson  and  was 
looking  for  employment  elsewhere.  On  reaching  Victoria 
she  went  at  once  to  the  bureau  in  Regent  Street,  but  her 
letter  had  only  been  received  a  few  hours  before,  and  she 
was  told  to  come  back  in  two  days'  time.  A  clerk  mechan- 
ically noted  that  she  had  left  her  previous  employment  be- 
cause she  desired  a  change ;  the  old  particulars  of  age, 
experience  and  salary  were  once  more  entered ;  and  she  was 
free  to  look  for  lodgings. 

As  soon  as  she  had  an  address  for  letters,  she  wrote  again 
to  Deryk  and  begged  him  to  arrange  a  meeting.  He  found 
both  letters  at  his  club  that  night  and  invited  her  to  lunch 
with  him  next  day.  It  was  a  relief  to  hear  that  she  had  at 
last  broken  free  of  Miss  Dawson's  persecution  and  escaped 
the  no  less  galling  persecution  of  Sidney ;  he  was  disturbed, 
however,  by  the  prospect  of  her  having  to  secure  a  new 
position.  As  both  of  them  knew,  she  had  few  qualifications 
to  offer  and,  though  he  had  made  enough  money  to  keep 
her  for  several  months,  he  did  not  want  to  break  unduly 
into  his  slowly  accumulated  capital. 

"What  exactly  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked  uneasily, 
as  they  sat  down  to  luncheon. 

"I  must  take  anything  I  can  get,"  she  answered  slowly, 
"unless " 

"V/ell  ?" 

She  leaned  across  the  table  with  her  eyes  set  pleadingly 
on  his. 

"Deryk,  why  must  we  wait?"  she  whispered.  "I've  told 
you  I  don't  mind  how  poor  we  are  to  start  with " 

"It's  no  good !"  His  eyebrows  met  in  a  determined 
frown,  and  his  mouth  stiffened.  A  similar  expression  was 
well  known  in  certain  parts  of  New  York  a  generation 
earlier ;  Hatherly  and  Raymond  still  saw  it  in  its  enfeebled 
age  and  were  wont  to  shrug  their  shoulders  and  acquiesce 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  175 

when  it  appeared.  Gwendolen  Lancing  had  been  compelled 
to  recognise  it  from  the  first  and  with  it  a  certain  hardness 
and  contempt  for  women;  and  her  recognition  of  it  had 
killed  something  within  her.  "I've  gone  into  it,  and  you 
haven't,  old  girl,"  he  went  on,  clumsily  patting  her  hand. 
"When  you  see  what  a  jolly  little  way  money  goes " 

"I  have  seen,  Deryk,"  she  interrupted  obstinately.  "I 
couldn't  help  seeing,  when  father  died.'' 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  forward  till  I  know  the  ground's 
solid  under  me,"  he  rejoined. 

Idina  sighed  and  turned  the  sigh  into  a  not  very  con- 
vincing laugh. 

"I  don't  believe  you  really  want  me  a  bit,"  she  said. 
"You'd  get  on  quite  well  without  me." 

Deryk  continued  his  meal  for  some  moments  without 
speaking.     Than  he  remarked  carelessly, 

"I  don't  think  that's  you  at  your  best,  Dina." 

"Well,  you  said,  if  I  died  or  eloped,  you'd  go  on  just  the 
same."  She  had  never  forgotten  the  maladroit  want  of 
affection  in  the  phrase ;  it  had  set  her  doubting  whether  he 
loved  her  at  all,  and,  now  that  she  was  unstrung  and  hungry 
for  a  caress  of  voice  or  hand,  the  words  came  back  to 
sting  her.  "If  you  really  cared  for  me,  it  would  make  a 
difiference  to  whatever  you  did :  it  would  make  a  difference, 
if  I  died ;"  she  ignored  his  gesture ;  "it  W'ould  make  a  differ- 
ence if  I  didn't  marry  you." 

She  broke  off  with  a  pout  and  sat  staring  at  her  plate. 
Deryk  could  feel  his  patience  ebbing,  as  it  had  come  to 
ebb  more  quickly  than  ever  in  the  last  few  months ;  he  felt, 
too,  that  she  was  overwrought  and  in  need  of  humouring, 

"We're  not  going  to  quarrel  over  a  phrase,  are  we?" 
he  asked  gently. 

"It  depends  on  the  phrase,"  she  pouted.  "You  used 
to  say  you  loved  me,  but  when  I  offer  myself  to  you " 

"It's  a  question  of  time,"  he  interrupted.  "We  should 
be  mad  to  marry  yet." 

The  luncheon  was  a  mosaic  of  unhappy  misunderstand- 
ings, and  both  were  secretly  relieved  when  it  was  over. 


176  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Deryk  hurried  back  to  work,  promising  to  let  her  know 
when  they  could  meet  again ;  Idina  walked  about  the  Park 
and  went  home  to  her  lodgings.  In  the  morning  she  called 
again  at  the  employment  bureau  and  was  asked  to  go  at  once 
into  the  manager's  private  office.  Full  of  hope,  she  pre- 
sented herself  before  an  alert  young  man  with  a  highly 
cultivated  business  manner. 

"Miss  Penrose?"  he  began.  "Yes.  P.  PE.  Here  we 
are.  Position  as  companion.  What  happened  with  your 
last  employer,  Miss  Penrose  ?  We  had  a  lady  in  here  two 
days  ago;  I  thought  you  might  suit,  but,  when  she  came 
to  take  up  your  reference,  we  didn't  get  much  satisfaction. 
Let  me  see,  who  was  your  late  employer?" 

"Miss  Dawson,  The  Grange,  Aston  Ripley,"  Idina  an- 
swered; and  then,  rather  defiantly,  "What  does  she  say 
about  me?" 

"Nothing.    Declines — in  terms — to  say  anything." 

"But — she  must!"  Idina  exclaimed. 

"Purely  optional,"  said  the  manager.  "What  was  th^ 
trouble?" 

Idina  disposed  of  the  question  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"We  didn't  get  on  together,"  she  said.  "But— I  shan't 
get  a  position  anywhere,  if  I  don't  give  a  reference."  The 
young  manager  was  delicately  silent.  "Shall  I?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"Our  clients  naturally  expect  one." 

The  truth  sank  slowly  into  Idina's  brain. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  can  keep  me  out  of  work 
all  my  life  by  just  refusing  to  say  anything  about  me?" 

"I  wouldn't  go  as  far  as  that.  References  aren't  wanted 
everywhere."  He  looked  with  a  practised  eye  at  her  fresh 
young  face  and  delicately  outlined  figure.  "The  stage,  for 
instance.     Can  you  sing  or  dance?" 

"I've  never  tried." 

"H'm.  Then  in  your  own  interests  I  wouldn't  recom- 
mend it.  I  really  asked  you  to  come  in,  because,  if  Miss 
Dawson  stands  by  what  she  says  and  if  you  can't  give  an- 
other reference,  I  don't  think  we  can  help  you  here." 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  177 

He  tidied  away  his  papers  with  a  brisk,  business-like  air 
of  finaHty  and  looked  up  at  her.  Idina  thanked  him, 
bowed  and  went  out  into  the  street.  She  had  fully  expected 
to  find  Miss  Dawson  writing  pages  of  suggestive  innuendo ; 
in  her  indignation  she  had  half  hoped  to  find  the  malicious 
pen  running  away  and  using  language  for  which  it  could 
be  held  to  account;  never  had  she  imagined  that  mere  re- 
fusal to  speak  could  inexorably  bar  every  avenue  of  em- 
ployment. Jumping  on  to  an  omnibus,  she  went  home  and 
wrote  an  urgent  letter,  begging  Deryk  to  meet  her  at  once. 
He  was  not  in  the  County  Club,  when  she  left  it  there,  but 
in  the  afternoon  he  telegraphed  to  say  that  he  was  en- 
gaged all  day.  In  turn  she  telegraphed,  "Implore  you  can- 
cel engagement  urgently  necessary  see  you  immediately." 

The  second  message  reached  Deryk  as  he  was  dressing 
for  dinner.  In  twenty  minutes'  time  he  was  due  to  dine 
with  Mrs.  Welman  at  Claridge's  and  be  introduced  later  in 
the  evening  to  James  Branksome,  the  theatrical  producer 
and  lessee  of  four  of  the  principal  London  theatres  de- 
voted to  musical  comedy.  Already  their  meeting  had  been 
three  times  postponed,  twice  by  his  own  request  and  once 
at  the  instance  of  Mrs.  Welman ;  at  last  all  three  were  dis- 
engaged, and  Deryk  was  more  than  ever  reluctant  to  take 
risks  with  his  luck.  Branksome  was  to  meet  him  that  eve- 
ning and  hear  his  waltzes,  when  the  party  returned  to  sup- 
per in  his  rooms  after  the  first  night  of  an  operetta  at  the 
Emperor's.  Deryk  balanced  the  long-standing  pledge  with 
Idina's  telegram ;  her  language  was  hysterical,  but  he  knew 
her  to  be  overwrought,  and  it  would  not  do  to  say,  as  he 
was  at  first  tempted  to  do,  that  she  must  pull  herself  to- 
gether.    Clearly  he  must  go  and  steady  her  nerves.  .  .  . 

The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  meet  Branksome  formally  at 
the  theatre,  cut  out  the  supper  and  let  the  waltzes  take  their 
chance  at  a  later  date.  He  would  have  cut  out  the  theatre 
too,  but  a  notice  was  expected  of  him  for  the  "Critic." 

The  page  boy  was  still  waiting. 

"Afraid  cannot  be  with  you  till  late,"  he  wrote,  "calling 
on  chance  otherwise  will  come  to-morrow  early." 


178  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Then  he  finished  his  dressing  and  hurried  out  to  dinner. 

Idina  waited  in  her  lodgings  until  half  past  seven  and 
then  went  out.  She  started  with  an  idea  of  getting  dinner 
somewhere,  but  her  appetite  had  left  her,  and  she  wandered 
about  in  the  open  because  she  could  not  bear  to  be  alone 
any  longer.  As  she  turned  into  Edgware  Road,  her  passage 
was  barred,  and  she  found  Sidney  Dawson  standing  bare- 
headed before  her.  There  was  nothing  of  the  dandy  about 
his  tired  face  and  dusty  boots;  the  serio-comic  wooer  was 
sunk  in  purposeful  energy  and  indignation. 

"I've  been  looking  for  you  all  the  afternoon,  Miss  Pen- 
rose," he  began  with  a  frown  that  terrified  her  while  she 
felt  that  it  was  not  intended  for  her.  "We  must  get  out 
of  this  crowd !  Let's  make  for  the  Park,  we  can  sit  down 
there,  I'm  sure." 

He  gave  her  his  arm  and  led  the  way  with  rapid  strides 
towards  the  Marble  Arch.  As  she  hurried  to  keep  pace 
with  him,  Idina  could  hardly  believe  that  the  stern-faced 
man  who  gnawed  at  his  moustache  in  anger  was  the  man 
who  had  mincingly  insisted  on  using  her  Christian  name. 

"It  was  the  merest  chance  I  saw  you  at  all,"  he  explained 
volubly.  "I  might  have  spent  the  rest  of  my  life  looking 
for  you,  if  I  hadn't  caught  sight  of  you  in  St.  James'  Square 
this  afternoon.  I  gave  chase,  of  course,  but  you  had  the 
start  and  got  a  'bus.  I  followed  in  a  taxi,  but  I  lost  you 
just  about  here — one  of  these  side  streets,  you  know:  I 
didn't  see  you  again,  though  I  prowled  round  for  miles, 
till  I  spied  you  in  the  distance  coming  out  of  a  telegraph 
office.  Then  I  lost  you  again,  I  prowled  round  again ;  now 
I've  found  you,  thank  God !  Let's  get  hold  of  two  chairs ; 
I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Idina  wondered,  with  a  moment's  dread,  whether  he  was 
going  to  say  that  he  was  grown  desperate  and  would  com- 
mit suicide,  unless  she  promised  to  marry  him.  Never  be- 
fore had  she  seen  him  so  much  stripped  of  his  artificial 
elegance  and  gaiety. 

"Sit  down  here,"  he  commanded,  pointing  to  two  chairs. 


i 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  179 

"I'm  not  going  to  mince  matters.  What  did  my  sister  say 
to  you  the  other  day?" 

The  girl  flushed  and  bit  her  lip. 

"I  can't  discuss  that,"  she  said. 

Sidney  nodded  grimly. 

"Thank  you.  That's  all  I  wanted  to  know.  She  said  it 
to  me,  too — not  that  I  mind ;  I  can  take  care  of  myself ;  it's 
different  with  you.  She  threatened — but  I  didn't  believe, 
I  knew  she  couldn't  .  .  .  till  I  found  she  had.  Frankly 
I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done.  ...  If  she  were  a  man, 
I'd  horsewhip  her.  .  .  .  Apparently  she's  been  talking  to 
other  people  as  well,  I  met  Hatherly  at  the  Club  this  morn- 
ing. .  .  .  That's  how  I  heard  about  it."  His  explosive  half- 
sentences  ceased  for  a  moment,  and  he  turned  appeaHngly 
to  her.    "What's  to  be  done.  Miss  Penrose?" 

Idina  was  long  in  answering. 

"Nothing  can  be  done,"  she  said.  "You  can't  overtake  a 
story  like  that." 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  let  you " 

"You  can't  help  it,"  she  answered  in  a  dead  voice.  "It's 
awfully  good  of  you  to  take  so  much  trouble.  .  .  .  I — I've 

been  expecting  something  of  the  kind.    This  morning " 

She  hesitated  and  then  told  him  of  the  visit  to  the  em- 
ployment bureau. 

Sidney  snorted  impatiently. 

"That's  a  matter  of  pounds,  shillings  and  pence,"  he  said. 

"It's  your  reputation "    He  paused  and  averted  his  face. 

"I've  always  felt  that  you  needed  protection,  and  that's  one 
reason  why  I  w^anted  you  to  marry  me.  I  know  I've  not 
made  much  headway  and,  of  course,  I  am  several  years 
older  than  you  are;  but,  if  you  think  that  my  name  .  .  ." 
Idina  shook  her  head.  "I'm  not  asking  you  to  be  my  wife, 
Miss  Penrose ;  I'm  asking  you  to  accept  anything  that  the 
position  of  a  married  woman  gives  you.  Of  course,  my 
sister  will  make  the  obvious  comment — she'll  do  that,  what- 
ever happens — but,  if  you  want  a  home  of  your  own,  if 
you'll  accept  what  I  can  give  you — I  won't  even  live  in 
the  same  house " 


i8o  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Idina  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve  to  stop  him.  The  offer 
was  bravely  phrased,  but  he  struggled  in  labour  to  bring 
out  each  word. 

"It's  much  too  good  of  you ;  I  really  can't.  Probably  the 
— the  decent  people  know  it's  all  a  lie." 

"But  the  people  who  don't  know  you  ?  That  story's  prob- 
ably running  like  wildfire  through  the  length  and  breadth 
of  Aston  Ripley.     I — I  feel  personally  responsible." 

Idina  got  up  from  her  chair  and  held  out  her  hand.  She 
was  too  tired  and  dazed  to  think  clearly.  Deryk  must  do 
her  thinking  for  her,  and  she  must  hurry  on  to  the  County 
Club  to  see  whether  her  telegram  had  reached  him.  The 
effort  of  rising  made  her  giddy,  and  she  stood  for  a  moment 
to  steady  herself.  Sidney  rose,  too,  with  an  expression 
of  worry  and  bewilderment,  as  though  he  did  not  know 
what  next  to  do. 

"We  can't  leave  things  as  they  are,  you  know,"  he  urged. 
"I  want  time  to  think  it  over —  Have  you  had  dinner?" 
Idina  shook  her  head.  "Well,  will  you  give  me  the  pleas- 
ure of  your  company  at  dinner  somewhere — anywhere  you 
like.     You're  not  looking  well,  you  know." 

She  declined  the  invitation  and  started  in  the  direction 
of  Park  Lane,  wondering  how  to  get  rid  of  her  companion 
before  reaching  St.  James'  Square.  Yet  companionship 
was  comforting  even  in  a  man  who  walked  silently  by  her 
side,  digging  savagely  at  the  gravel  with  his  stick.  They 
crossed  Park  Lane  without  speaking  and  turned  into  Brook 
Street.  A  knot  of  idlers  was  collected  outside  Claridge's, 
and  they  paused  to  let  an  immense  green  limousine  turn 
out  of  the  courtyard. 

"Russian  Ambassador,"  murmured  Sidney,  after  a  glance 
at  the  two  men  inside.  "I  used  to  know  all  these  fellows 
in  the  old  days,  when  I  lived  in  London  more.  I  expect  the 
other's  the  Grand  Duke  Vladimir ;  I  saw  he'd  arrived  in 
London  and  I  believe  there's  a  gala  night  for  him  at  Covent 
Garden." 

They  started  forward  again,  but  had  to  jump  back 
quickly,  as  a  second  car  came  slowly  out,  bearing  a  woman 


A  QUESTION  OF  PRIDE  i8i 

and  a  man.  Sidney  raised  his  hat,  muttering,  "I  wish  that 
woman  wouldn't  bow  to  me." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Idina,  who  had  only  caught  sight 
of  a  small  face  with  eager,  dark  eyes  peeping  out  over  an 
ermine  collar. 

"That's  the  famous  Mrs.  Welman,"  he  answered  a  little 
contemptuously.    "I  can't  make  out  what  people  see  in  her." 

Idina  leaned  forward  for  a  second  look,  wondering  where 
she  had  heard  the  name.  As  she  did  so,  the  man  inside 
perfunctorily  acknowledged  Sidney's  salute  and  lolled  back 
in  his  corner.  In  the  failing  light  Idina  could  not  be  sure  of 
his  identity,  but  Sidney  solved  any  doubts  by  remarking 
carelessly : 

"Young  Lancing  with  her  again!  He'll  get  into  hot 
water,  if  he's  not  careful." 

A  third  car  turned  into  the  street,  and  they  were  at  lib- 
erty to  walk  on.  As  they  entered  Hanover  Square,  Sidney 
again  suggested  that  they  should  have  some  dinner  to- 
gether. 

"I  think  I  will,  if  I  may,"  Idina  answered  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  the  words  were  in  order  and  the  sense 
coherent.  And  yet — she  had  only  found  out  why  Deryk 
would  not  come  to  see  her!  "Now  that  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  I've  had  nothing  since  breakfast,"  she  added  with  a 
laugh. 

Sidney  hailed  a  taxi  and  drove  to  the  Alcazar,  where  he 
ordered  a  private  room. 

"You're  looking  terribly  tired  and  white,"  he  said,  sit- 
ting timidly  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa  where  she  was  lying 
half-length  with  one  hand  over  her  eyes.  "Dinner  will  do 
you  all  the  good  in  the  world;  you're  really  not  fit  to  look 
after  yourself.  I  mustn't  enlarge  on  that,  however,  but  I 
want  you  always  to  remember  that,  however  lonely  and 
miserable  you  feel,  there's  always  one  man  who's  only 
waiting  to  be  asked  to  help  you.  I — I — I  want  nothing  in 
return." 

Idina  allowed  him  to  take  her  hand  and  stroke  it. 

"You're  much  too  kind  to  me,"  she  said  drowsily. 


i82  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  to  make  you  happy,"  he 
answered  simply.  "But  we  won't  discuss  that  any  more. 
Would  you  like  to  wash  your  hands  before  dinner?" 

Idina  made  no  movement.  Two  months'  conflicting  emo- 
tions, the  vague  resentments,  doubts  and  thoughts  of  the 
last  few  weeks  became  concentrated  and  intensified,  like 
sun  rays  through  a  burning  glass.  Bitter  disillusionment, 
loneliness,  response  to  the  least  congenial  kindness,  terror 
of  the  future  and  vindictiveness  towards  the  old  woman 
who  had  contributed  so  much  towards  her  misery,  passed 
in  hot  successive  waves  through  her  mind. 

"Why  not  discuss  it  ?"  she  asked,  hardly  knowing  whether 
she  was  speaking  aloud. 

Sidney  leaned  forward  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  Then 
he  drew  back  with  an  effort. 

"I  will  devote  all  I  have  to  your  protection  and  happi- 
ness," he  said  stiffly.     "And  I  will  ask  nothing  in  return." 

Idina  lay  very  still  with  her  hand  still  pressed  over  her 
throbbing  eyes. 

"If  you  still  want  me  to  be  your  wife,  I  will  marry  you," 
she  answered. 

When  dinner  was  over  he  drove  her  back  to  her  lodg- 
ings. She  was  too  tired  to  speak,  and  for  once  he  had 
the  intuitive  wisdom  to  leave  her  to  herself.  During  the 
meal  they  exchanged  half  a  dozen  sentences  on  the  food 
and  wine;  at  the  door  he  promised  to  call  for  her  next 
day.  Idina  walked  upstairs  in  a  condition  of  mental  and 
bodily  exhaustion  that  permitted  of  no  thought.  On  her 
dressing-table  lay  a  telegram — "Afraid  cannot  be  with  you 
till  late  calling  on  chance  will  come  to-morrow  early 
Deryk."  She  crumpled  it  up  and  threw  it  into  the  grate; 
then  she  told  her  landlady  that  she  was  going  to  bed  and 
wanted  to  be  called  early  the  following  day.  The  bed- 
clothes were  hardly  pulled  over  her  before  she  was  asleep, 
and  in  the  morning  she  awoke  to  find  that  the  gas  was  still 
burning. 


CHAPTER  IV 

RECOIL 


The  end  of  life?  Yes  ...  I  can  tell  j'ou  what  that  is.  .  .  .  Let 
me  suffer  always ;  not  more  than  I  am  able  to  bear,  for  that  makes 
a  man  mad,  as  hunger  drives  the  wolf  to  sally  from  the  forest;  but 
still  to  suffer  some,  and  never  sink  up  to  my  eyes  in  comfort  and 
grow  dead  in  virtues  and  respectability. 

R.  L.  Stevenson  :  Letters. 


Apart  from  the  House  of  Commons,  where  he  had  sat 
for  twelve  years  as  a  Cross  Bench  member,  Raymond 
Stornaway's  public  life,  as  described  by  himself,  consisted 
in  compelling  comparative  strangers  to  give  him  money 
which  they  could  ill  spare  and  to  lend  their  services  to  phil- 
anthropic undertakings  in  which,  being  opulent  and  healthy 
themselves,  they  could  feel  no  shred  of  interest.  His  ma- 
rauding charity  was  conducted  in  a  genial,  Robin  Hood 
spirit,  and  the  victims  whom  he  casualiy  plundered  strayed 
thereafter  with  premeditation  on  to  the  road  where  they 
knew  that  he  was  lying  in  wait  for  them.  In  return  there 
was  no  kind  of  burden  which  he  would  not  shoulder  for 
a  friend  or  a  friend's  friend.  Young  men  in  search  of  pre- 
ferment would  state  their  case  to  Yolande,  and,  if  they 
survived  her  shrewd  and  exhaustive  screening,  she  would 
undertake  to  bind  a  spell  on  her  uncle ;  thereupon  Ray- 
mond, in  the  accepted  phrase,  was  required  to  "make  a 
magic";  and,  before  many  days  were  passed,  preferment, 
packed  up  and  neatly  tied,  was  waiting.  Forty  per  centum 
of  the  candidates  were  unworthy  of  their  positions,  but,  as 
Raymond  insisted,  a  far  higher  proportion  of  failures  would 
be  secured  by  any  competitive  tests,  and,  as  jobbery  was 

183 


i84  MIDAS  AND  SON 

inherent  in  the  race,  let  it  at  least  be  conducted  by  people 
who  knew  something  about  it.  If  young  married  people 
were  drifting  apart,  Raymond  was  required  to  give  them 
commonsense  and  perspective ;  and,  when  boys  were  found 
spending  too  much  money  or  contracting  undesirable  friend- 
ships, Raymond  again  was  summoned  to  speak  sternly,  "I 
spend  my  life  robbing  people  or  telling  them  not  to  make 
fools  of  themselves,"  he  complained,  running  his  fingers 
distractedly  through  his  hair.  "I  can't  make  out  why  there 
isn't  a  popular  rising  against  me." 

At  the  beginning  of  the  1913  season  he  found  himself 
committed  as  usual,  to  the  task  of  collecting  young  men 
and  women  from  his  numberless  acquaintances,  giving  sev- 
eral large  dinner  parties  and  personally  conducting  twelve 
or  fifteen  couples  to  the  dances  of  anxious  hostesses.  It 
was  a  reprisal,  gladly  endured,  for  his  own  offences  in  hold- 
ing society  to  ransom,  and,  so  long  as  Yolande  made  herself 
responsible  for  the  arrangements,  he  could  return  to  bed 
at  what  hour  he  pleased,  leaving  his  entertainers  to  think 
that  he  had  gone  back  to  the  House  of  Commons  and  the 
House  of  Commons  that  he  was  either  sunk  in  dissipation 
or  working  late  in  his  big  office  by  the  Vale  of  Health.  "In 
this  way  everyone  is  pleased,"  he  would  remark  contentedly. 

For  the  first  party  of  the  season  Deryk  was  invited,  as 
Yolande  was  sure  that  he  was  overworking  himself  and 
stood  in  need  of  relaxation.  Though  he  accepted  the  in- 
vitation, there  was  no  sign  of  him  by  half-past  eight  nor 
any  explanation  of  his  absence  until  a  belated  note  reached 
her  from  Hatherly,  saying  that  Sir  Aylmer  was  again 
seriously  ill  and  begging  her  to  communicate  with  Deryk, 
if  she  knew  his  whereabouts.  Under  stress  of  circum- 
stances she  revealed  his  Bloomsbury  address,  and  the  din- 
ner proceeded  without  him.  As  they  were  starting  for  the 
Pebbleridges'  ball  at  Bodmin  Lodge,  she  was  surprised  to 
receive  a  telephone  message,  apologising  for  his  absence 
and  saying  that  he  hoped  to  see  her  later  in  the  evening. 

"I  didn't  feel  equal  to  dinner,"  he  drawled  nonchalantly, 
when  they  met  after  supper  in  the  garden  of  the  Lodge. 


RECOIL  185 

"I  hope  your  uncle  didn't  think  me  rude.  Not  that  I 
greatly  care,  if  he  did,"  he  added  unnecessarily. 

"Whatever  he  thought,  I  know  what  /  feel,"  Yolande 
answered  with  spirit. 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  really  rude  to  say  I  didn't  greatly 
care  about  that  either." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  He  was  stand- 
ing with  eyes  half-closed  and  an  unnaturally  white  face, 
swaying  slightly  and  sliding  an  unlit  cigarette  from  one  side 
of  his  mouth  to  the  other.  For  a  moment  she  thought  that 
he  had  been  drinking. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Deryk  ?"  she  asked. 

"Just  bored  with  life,"  he  answered.  "I  say,  you  don't 
feel  equal  to  another  supper,  I  suppose?  I've  had  nothing 
but  three  glasses  of  water  the  last  two  days." 

Anxiously  she  took  his  arm  and  led  him  back  into  the 
house. 

"What's  wrong?"  she  asked.  "Is  it  your  father  again? 
Oh,  I  forgot  to  give  you  a  message  from  Mr.  Hatherly." 

Deryk's  face  twisted  itself  into  an  unamiable  smile. 

"I  suppose  it  might  be  called  my  father  again.  I  got 
Hats'  message,  though.  At  least  he  ran  me  to  earth  in 
Great  Ormonde  Street ;  I  suppose  yoit  gave  me  away.  Yes, 
that's  why  I'm  here." 

"Is  Sir  Aylmer  all  right  again  ?"  she  asked. 

"Hats  thinks  he's  dying,"  Deryk  answered.  "They 
wanted  me  at  Ripley,  so  I  dressed  and  came  here.  Hats 
always  does  think  he's  dying.  What  are  you  going  to  have 
to  eat  ?" 

Yolande  sat  for  a  moment  without  speaking,  then  pushed 
back  her  chair. 

"I'm  going  upstairs,"  she  said. 

The  supper  room  was  emptying  quickly,  as  couple  after 
couple  picked  up  gloves  and  lit  cigarettes,  and  she  made 
her  way,  with  tightly  shut  lips  and  bright  eyes,  to  the  back 
of  a  little  procession  that  was  squeezing  into  the  hall. 
Deryk  did  not  follow,  but,  as  she  turned  in  the  doorway, 
she  saw  him  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  unconscious 


1 86  MIDAS  AND  SON 

of  the  waiter's  presence  at  his  side.  For  a  moment  she  hesi- 
tated in  uncertainty;  then  hurried  back  to  the  table  and 
made  pretence  of  helping  herself  to  food. 

"Do  tell  me  what  the  matter  is !"  she  whispered,  as  the 
waiter  withdrew,  "Aren't  you  well?  You  look  simply 
awful." 

Deryk  let  fall  his  hands  and  revealed  a  haggard  face  with 
burning,  restless  eyes, 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  told  her, 

Yolande  shook  her  head  and  touched  his  hand  with  her 
finger-tips, 

"Don't  talk  till  you've  had  something  to  eat,"  she  ordered, 
"You've  been  overworking,  Deryk,  and  now  you're  paying 
for  it.  What  you've  got  to  do  is  to  have  a  complete  rest — 
it's  no  use  frowning,  you'll  simply  smash  up,  if  you  don't — 
then,  when  you're  all  right  again " 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  sudden  movement  and  stood 
with  twitching  muscles,  gripping  his  napkin  in  a  hand  that 
trembled. 

"I — I  can't  stand  this,  Yolande,"  he  exclaimed,  "For 
pity's  salce  leave  me  out;  talk  about  the  Academy,  any 
dam'  thing — my  father,  if  you  like.  Er,  I'm  sorry  I  was 
rude  in  the  garden.     I  suppose  I  was  trying  to  be  funny." 

With  a  sudden  movement  he  collapsed  on  to  his  chair 
and  searched  clumsily  for  a  fish  knife  and  fork.  For  many 
moments  Yolande  was  too  much  frightened  to  speak ;  but  to 
sit  silent  under  the  sweep  of  his  wild  eyes  lay  beyond  her 
powers,  and  she  asked  vaguely  whether  any  later  news  of 
Sir  Aylmer  had  been  received.  Deryk  shook  his  head  and 
went  on  eating.  Only  when  he  had  finished  his  meal  and 
drunk  two  glasses  of  champagne  did  he  utter  a  word. 

"If  you're  not  booked  up  three-deep,  can't  we  sit  and 
talk  somewhere?     I've  got  some  news  for  you." 

They  found  two  chairs  in  the  empty  smoking-room,  and 
he  pulled  a  crumpled  letter  from  his  pocket  and  tossed  it 
unceremoniously  into  her  lap.  It  was  written  in  a  hand 
unknown  to  her  from  a  private  hotel  in  South  Kensington 
and  bore  a  date  of  three  days  earlier,  but  no  address. 


RECOIL  187 

"I  feel,"  she  read,  "that  you  and  I  have  got  into  a  false 
position.  Of  course,  as  you  said  all  along,  there's  been  no 
engagement  between  us,  and  we  were  both  free  to  do  what 
we  liked,  but  things  weren't  quite  so  easy  as  that.  I  believe 
you  once  loved  me;  and  I  would  have  done  anything  for 
you.  Then  you  changed,  and  it  would  have  been  more 
honourable  to  tell  me  so.  Perhaps  you  never  did  love  me: 
perhaps  you  just  thought  you  did.  But  I  trusted  you,  even 
when  you  went  away  and  refused  to  see  me;  I  went  on 
trusting  you  when  you  told  me  to  my  face  that  it  wouldn't 
make  any  difference  to  you  if  I  died  or  married  someone 
else.  I  wonder  what  you  thought  of  me !  V/hile  I  still 
believed  that  you  wanted  me,  I  offered  to  marry  you,  what- 
ever the  consequences ;  you  may  not  know  that,  for  a  girl, 
that  takes  some  doing.  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  clever  enough 
to  see  that,  while  I  was  trying  to  force  myself  upon  you, 
you  were  trying  to  get  rid  of  me. 

"But,  Deryk,  I'd  sooner  have  been  told  by  you  than  left 
to  find  it  out.  Why  didn't  you  say  frankly  that  you  never 
meant  anything,  that  I  w'asn't  good  enough,  that  you  pre- 
ferred someone  else  ?  I  shouldn't  have  reproached  you ; 
how  could  I,  when  we  were  never  engaged?  But  it  would 
have  been  kinder  than  letting  me  think  you  still  cared  for 
me.  Why  did  you  go  on  pretending  to  care  for  me?  I 
wasn't  good  enough  for  you,  but  no  one  else  must  speak 
to  me.  You  wouldn't  see  me  when  I  was  in  trouble,  but  you 
wouldn't  let  anyone  else  help  me.  I  believed  in  you,  Deryk, 
to  the  very  end :  it  wasn't  clever  of  me,  but  I'm  not  clever 
and,  when  you  said  that  you  loved  me  and  me  alone,  I'm 
afraid  I  believed  it.  I  was  too  fond  of  you  before  to  re- 
proach you  now,  and  you  were  alwjays  free  to  do  what  you 
liked.  Now  that  it  is  all  over,  I  have  only  to  say  good- 
bye. By  the  time  that  you  receive  this,  I  shall  have  left 
England  with  my  husband.  We  shall  probably  live  abroad, 
but,  whatever  happens,  you  and  I  are  not  likely  to  meet. 
I  wish  you  all  happiness  in  your  life. 

"Idina  Dawson." 


1 88  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Before  Yolande  had  read  three  lines  of  the  letter,  one 
hand  had  stolen  up  to  shield  her  face  from  Deryk's  eyes ; 
and,  when  she  came  to  the  end,  she  deliberately  turned 
back  to  gain  time.  A  third  and  a  fourth  reading  brought 
her  no  nearer  to  understanding,  and  she  finally  folded  up 
the  letter  and  handed  it  back  in  silence. 

"I — I — Oh,  what  had  you  been  doing,  Deryk?"  she  cried. 

"I  asked  her  to  wait  till  I  could  afford  to  marry  her," 
he  answered  in  a  toneless  voice.  Yolande  stretched  out 
her  hand  for  the  letter,  but  he  shook  his  head.  "You  know 
all  that's  in  it.  She — I  suppose  she  couldn't  wait.  I  wired 
one  evening  to  say  I  was  coming  next  day,  but  she  was  out 
when  I  arrived.  I  went  away  and  came  back;  I  wired,  I 
wrote.  Then  the  landlady  told  me  two  days  afterwards 
that  a  servant  had  called  to  take  away  her  things.  Then 
I  got  the  letter."  He  paused,  and  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
came  out  to  moisten  his  lips.  "It — was  the  first  I'd  heard, 
the  first  I'd  dreamed.  .  .  .  The  way  she  selected  to  break 
it  to  me.  Then  I  caught  sight  of  them  both  coming  out 
of  a  shop  in  Regent  Street  and  getting  into  his  car.  That 
was  two  days  ago.  I — I — I've  spent  the  rest  of  the  time 
walking  about  the  streets — thinking."  He  broke  off  and 
turned  to  Yolande  in  shrill  excitement.  "I'm  mad!  The 
whole  world's  mad !  My  God !  Yolande,  what  am  I  going 
to  do?    What — what — what  does  it  all  mean?" 

Down  the  stairs,  as  he  paused,  came  the  sound  of  a  waltz, 
and  in  the  hall  Summertown's  rather  nasal  voice  squeaked, 
"I've  got  a  goodish  taxi  here.  Give  you  a  lift  home,  Bettie, 
if  you're  a  good  girl."  "I'm  goin'  on  to  the  Fentons  at  the 
Hyde  Park,"  answered  a  hard,  unfeminine  voice,  "Casa- 
no's  playing  there." 

Yolande  rose  from  her  chair  and  shut  the  door.  Then 
she  looked  at  the  bowed  head  and  twitching  hands  and 
caught  him  gently  by  the  shoulders. 

"You  must  pull  yourself  together,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
understand,  I  can't  say  the  ordinary  things ;  it's  too  bad 
for  that.    You  must  face  what's  happened " 

"What  else  d'you  think  I've  been  doing?" 


RECOIL  189 

"You've  got  to  go  on  in  spite  of  it,"  she  continued  ex- 
citedly. "She's  gone,  and  you've  got  your  whole  life  to 
make,  you've  got  to  see  that  you  don't  let  it  be  spoiled. 
You've  got " 

"For  God's  sake,  stop!  Yolande,"  he  cried. 

She  bit  her  lip  at  the  rebuke. 

"I'm  sorry,  Deryk."  There  was  a  moment's  silence ;  then 
she  caught  his  hand  in  hers,  "Oh,  my  poor  boy,  if  I  knew 
what  to  say,  if  only  I  could  make  it  not  hurt  so  much !" 

At  the  sudden  softening  of  her  voice  after  its  moment  of 
asperity,  he  flung  away  and  stood  at  the  fireplace  with  his 
back  to  her,  hiding  his  eyes  with  one  hand.  When  he 
turned,  his  cheeks  were  wet,  and  he  looked  pointedly  away 
from  her. 

"You'll  break  me  up,  if  you  talk  like  that,"  he  muttered 
huskily.  "Tell  me  I'm  a  fool,  say  it  was  all  my  fault — I 
can  stand  that ;  but — I  came  here  for  sympathy  and  I  can't 
stand  it  when  you  offer  it  me." 

He  began  walking  round  the  room,  examining  the  pic- 
tures, while  Yolande  watched  him  in  silent  fascination.  As 
though  dreaming,  she  heard  him  asking  when  Lord  Pebble- 
ridge  had  been  in  India  and  herself  answering  that  she 
believed  he  had  once  been  A.  D.  C.  to  the  Governor  of 
Bombay;  then  they  stood  side  by  side  looking  at  a  faded 
group  in  front  of  Government  House.  He  moved  on  to 
the  next  picture,  like  a  man  making  his  way  perfunctorily 
through  a  gallery;  again  they  discussed  it  with  lack-lustre 
pretence  of  interest. 

"She  couldn't  wait — six  months,"  he  cried  suddenly. 

"There's  more  in  it  than  that,  Deryk." 

"Oh,  a  bird  in  the  hand!" 

"If  you  really  think  that,  you're  well  out  of  it.  She's  had 
some  big  shock,  some  awful  disappointment.  ...  I  know; 
I'm  a  woman." 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his,  but  he  disengaged  him- 
self and  sprawled  heavily  on  a  couch  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place. 


I90  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Well,  at  least  I  can  take  a  holiday  now,"  he  sighed 
heavily. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know.  I've  made  quite  a  lot  of  money  the  last 
month  or  two  and,  until  that's  gone,  I  needn't  do  any  work ; 
there'll  be  more  coming,  if  I  ever  bother  to  finish  the 
Ilkley  Papers.     And  then " 

"Well?" 

"I  can  get  what  I  like  out  of  my  father.  Hats  told  me 
so  to-night.  He'll  climb  down,  he'll  settle  anything  I  like 
on  me,  tear  up  the  trust  business — anything,  if  I'll  only  go 
down  to  Ripley.  Hats  swears  he  will!  If  she'd  waited 
another  week.  .  .  ." 

Yolande  looked  at  her  watch  and  picked  up  her  gloves. 

"I  must  be  getting  home  to  bed,  Deryk,"  she  said.  "Are 
you  going  down  ?    You  ought  to,  you  know." 

His  underlip  shot  out,  and  he  shook  his  head  sombrely. 

"He  can't  make  the  best  of  both  worlds.  He's  won  over 
Dina,  and  I  wish  him  joy  of  it.  As  for  his  money,  he  can  do 
what  he  likes  with  it.  I  can  always  make  enough  to  live, 
and  he  can  give  it  to  a  Home  for  Incurables  or  leave  it 
to  me  as  he  pleases ;  only  I  won't  have  it,  if  he  attaches  any 
conditions.  He  can  have  the  fun  of  seeing  everything  he's 
piled  up  so  industriously  simply  going  begging,  and  he  won't 
like  that.  He  can  see  me  going  to  the  devil  how  I  please, 
without  being  able  to  raise  a  finger  to  stop  me;  and  he 
won't  like  that  either.  And  I — I  shall  take  a  holiday  and 
forget." 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  they  parted,  and  Deryk  walked 
home  along  Knightsbridge  in  the  grey-blue  light  of  dawn. 
A  note  in  Hatherly's  writing  lay  on  his  table,  and  he  tore 
it  unread  into  four  pieces,  resolving  to  change  his  rooms  as 
soon  as  possible,  since  Yolande  had  revealed  their  where- 
abouts. Then,  without  undressing,  he  threw  himself  upon 
his  bed  and  switched  off  the  light. 

Hatherly  at  the  same  time  was  drawing  near  to  Aston 
Ripley  by  the  last  train.  He  walked  from  the  station  to 
Ripley  Court,  let  himself  in  by  the  side  door  and  went  to 


RECOIL  191 

Sir  Aylmer's  bedroom.  Phillimore  was  dozing  in  a  chair 
outside,  Benson  and  the  doctor  were  within.  Sir  Aylmer 
raised  heavy  eyes,  as  the  door  opened,  and  asked  whether 
Deryk  had  been  found. 

"And  he  refused  to  come?"  he  went  on,  as  Hatherly  bent 
over  the  bed.  "You  told  him  what  I — said  I  might  do 
about  the  money?" 

"It  came  too  late.  He'd  heard  about  Dawson,  of  course, 
and  he  was  very  savage.    How  are  you,  Aylmer  ?" 

Sir  Aylmer  was  silent  for  many  minutes ;  his  eyes  had 
narrowed  and  his  lips  closed  tightly,  when  he  heard  that 
Deryk  was  obdurate. 

"Forsyte  says  I've  turned  the  corner,"  was  the  reply  at 
last,    "Who  was  right  about  that  girl  now,  Ted  ?" 

"Don't  let's  discuss  that  now.  You  ought  to  be  asleep, 
and  I  shan't  be  sorry  to  be  in  bed." 

Hatherly  nodded  good-night  to  the  three  men  and  tiptoed 
to  the  door.  Had  he  been  in  the  mood  to  justify  himself, 
he  could  have  asked  who  was  right  now  about  Deryk.  In 
his  own  mind  he  was  satisfied  that,  whatever  else  Deryk 
might  do,  he  would  never  set  foot  in  Ripley  Court  while 
his  father  was  alive. 

"The  world's  a  big  place,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
walked  to  his  room.  "But,  with  all  their  money,  it's  not 
big  enough  for  those  two." 


On  the  day  following  her  tragic  conversation  with  Deryk 
at  Bodmin  Lodge,  Yolande  invited  herself  to  dine  alone 
with  her  uncle.  She  was  so  sore  and  angry  on  Deryk's 
account  that  she  could  only  talk  half-heartedly  of  measures 
for  restoring  peace  at  Ripley  Court,  but  she  had  a  real 
hunger  to  find  some  balm  for  the  boy's  wounded  spirit. 
Always  honest  with  herself,  however,  she  did  not  pretend 
to  know  male  youth  in  its  tragic  moments  nor  what  could 
be  expected  to  alleviate  its  suffering. 

"Time's  the  only  cure,  chick,"  Raymond  told  her,  when 
she  had  described  their  meeting  overnight.    "You  saw  him 


192  MIDAS  AND  SON 

raw,  of  course,  and  these  things  hurt  Hke  sin,  but  he'll  get 
over  it  in  time.  Aylmer  behaved  like  a  fool,  but  masterful 
old  men  always  do,  and  now  he's  paying  the  price.  You 
mustn't  force  the  pace.  The  only  thing  now  is  to  keep 
Deryk  occupied.  I  wish  for  his  sake  that  you'd  marry 
him." 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  marry  anyone,"  she  objected. 
"Besides,  it  wouldn't  be  quite  the  moment  to  suggest  it." 

Raymond  shook  his  head  with  wistful  sagacity. 

"There  you're  wrong,  my  dear.  Half  the  unhappy  mar- 
riages of  this  world  are  made  by  men  and  women  who  miss 
their  aim  and  hit  something  that  they  don't  want  in  recoil. 
But  you  and  he  would  suit  each  other  very  well ;  however, 
I'm  not  suggesting  it  seriously;  I'm  only  warning  you  that, 
if  he's  not  kept  busy,  he'll  get  up  to  mischief.  He  was 
lunching  with  Mrs.  Welman  to-day.  Surely  I  told  him  not 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself  with  her?    Yes,  I  know  I  did." 

"I  don't  think  that  means  anything,"  Yolande  answered. 
"Deryk's  too  fastidious;  he  prides  himself  on  it." 

"We  all  start  by  doing  that."  Raymond  looked  pensively 
at  the  ash  on  his  cigar.  "It  would  be  a  good  thing  to  get 
Deryk  packed  off  to  Hellenopolis,  where  Felix  could  keep 
an  eye  on  him.  If  we're  making  a  magic,  that's  the  thing 
to  go  for." 

Yolande  thought  over  the  advice  and  spent  several  days 
trying  to  get  hold  of  Deryk,  but  his  attendance  at  "Peace" 
office  was  irregular  and  no  one  knew  where  he  had  gone 
from  his  old  address  in  Great  Ormonde  Street.  George 
Oakleigh  promised  to  bring  them  together  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, but  a  week  had  gone  by  before  they  met  at  dinner  in 
Prince's  Gardens.  Pressed  to  explain  his  movements, 
Deryk  said  that  he  had  been  taking  the  promised  holiday; 
pressed  to  describe  the  holiday,  he  reeled  off  a  list  of  din- 
ners and  dances,  ending  with  a  week-end  on  Sir  Adolf 
Erckmann's  house-boat  at  Wargrave.  He  was  looking  more 
tired  and  ill  than  ever  before,  with  nervously  bright  eyes 
and  an  aggressive,  rather  reckless  manner. 


RECOIL  193 

"Do  people  of  that  kind  amuse  you?"  Yolande  asked  a 
little  disdainfully.    "They  used  not  to." 

"The  Erckmann  crowd?  No.  They  keep  me  from  think- 
ing, though,  and  I  suppose  I  really  belong  to  them,  being 
cross-bred.  Why  don't  you  come  and  meet  them?  Sum- 
mertown  and  Mrs.  Welman  are  dining  with  me  to-morrow 
at  Ranelagh ;  come  and  make  a  fourth." 

"I  have  no  wish  to  meet  Mrs.  Welman,  thank  you,  and, 
if  we're  going  on  being  friends,  you'd  better  not  ask  me 
again.     I  don't  regard  it  as  a  compliment." 

'Tf  /  know  her,  there's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't." 

"Ah,  Deryk !  in  the  old  days,  when  I  really  liked  you,  you 
wouldn't  have  known  her."  He  made  no  attempt  at  de- 
fence, and  Yolande  laid  her  hand  on  his.  "Don't  let's 
quarrel,  when  I  want  to  help  you.  I  know^  you're  all  right, 
but  that  set  has  got  an  awfully  bad  name.  Lord  Summer- 
town's  simply  being  dropped  by  people  since  he  took  up 
with  them.  Not  that  he  matters,  but  you  do.  You've  got 
a  wonderful  brain,  Deryk;  you've  got  talent,  accomplish- 
ments, health,  friends — everything  that  will  take  you  any- 
where— I  do  want  to  see  you  do  something  with  it  all. 
Why  don't  you  ?" 

Deryk  was  listening  unsympathetically  and  with  an  air 
of  polite  boredom,  as  though  she  were  investing  his  life  with 
a  seriousness  which  he  had  ceased  to  attach  to  it.  The 
clear  grey  eyes  and  auburn  hair  suggested  a  chastity  of  life 
and  spirit  to  which  he  had  grown  unaccustomed  in  the 
"Say-all,  do-all,  enjoy-yourself-and-damn-the-consequences" 
company  of  the  last  week. 

"What  can  I  do  ?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"What  can't  you  do?  There's  nothing.  Will  you  join 
Dr.  Manisty  in  Asia  Minor?  He's  coming  home  soon  for 
the  malaria  season,  but  he'll  be  going  out  again  in  the 
autumn.  Will  you  go  into  public  life?  Uncle  Raymond 
could  push  you  almost  anywhere.  You  see,  Der>'k,  you've 
had  a  big  thing  knocked  out  of  your  life  and  you've  got  to 
put  something  in  its  place.  It  isn't  an  end  in  itself  to  write 
just  enough  articles  for  the  papers — they're  not  even  very 


194  MIDAS  AND  SON 

good  articles — to  keep  a  roof  over  your  head  and  spend  the 
rest  of  your  time  racketing  about  with  people  who've  got 
nothing  else  in  life  to  do.  Apart  from  everything  else,  it 
doesn't  satisfy  you  and  it's  demoralising.  Now  I  won't 
preach  any  more,  but,  unless  you  take  yourself  at  your 
proper  value,  I've  got  no  use  for  you." 

She  smiled  and  turned  to  old  Bertrand  Oakleigh,  who  was 
on  her  other  side.  Deryk  sat  lost  in  reflection  for  some 
time.  During  the  early  months  of  the  year  he  had  worked 
so  hard  that  he  had  lost  the  habit  of  regular  sleep ;  pursuing 
a  vicious  circle,  he  had  sat  writing  half-way  through  the 
night  because  he  knew  that  he  could  not  sleep.  Next  day 
he  rose  jaded  and  without  appetite  and  was  unequal  to 
work  until  he  had  counteracted  the  effect  of  the  broken 
night.  .  .  .  He  shamefacedly  shirked  recalling  how  often 
he  had  drunk  a  brandy  and  soda  before  going  to  his  office. 
(He  could  not  remember  quite  when  it  had  started.)  It  was 
so  quick  and  convenient,  and  afterwards  he  did  not  mind,  if 
he  missed  luncheon.  By  the  evening  he  had  gone  flat  again, 
but  a  cocktail  put  him  right  for  dinner,  and  dinner  itself, 
with  some  champagne,  kept  him  vivacious  throughout  the 
evening — too  vivacious,  perhaps,  for  he  was  always  too 
wide-awake  to  sleep  when  he  returned  home.  And  from 
that  it  became  a  bore  to  go  home,  when  he  knew  that  he 
could  not  sleep ;  and  there  were  always  at  least  three 
houses  a  night  where  he  could  amuse  himself  for  an  hour 
or  two.  When  at  last  he  reached  home  between  five  and 
six  in  the  morning,  sometimes  he  slept  and  sometimes  he 
lay  awake  with  a  waltz  running  unforgetably  in  his  head. 
Of  course,  it  would  have  been  absurd  to  slack  off  next  day 
just  because  he  had  stayed  up  late  overnight;  that  would 
have  been  to  confess  weak  will  and  a  dominating  taste  for 
dissipation.  Every  morning  he  was  called  at  the  same 
time ;  every  day  he  worked  the  same  number  of  hours. 
There  were  moments  when  his  eyes  smarted  and  ached  for 
want  of  sleep,  moments,  too,  when  he  felt  listless  and  un- 
appetised,  but  a  brandy  and  soda  in  the  morning  pulled 
him  round  wonderfully.  .  .  . 


RECOIL  195, 

At  another  tirre  he  would  have  despised  himself,  but  he 
now  felt  that  there  was  nothing  to  contemn.  Was  he  ever 
drunk?  Did  he  ever  fail  to  deliver  his  copy  up  to  time? 
For  all  Yolande's  disdain,  his  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Welman 
had  never  taken  an  irrevocable  step.  Indeed,  there  was 
something  idyllic  in  their  friendship  which  prevented  it; 
they  brought  out  the  good  in  each  other;  if  she  had  ever 
lived  or  spoken  loosely,  his  presence  seemed  to  restrain 
her,  and  in  her  turn  she  gave  him  an  understanding  sym- 
pathy which  he  had  never  found  in  any  of  the  women  whom 
he  had  known  intimately.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing  much 
to  shew  the  world  in  all  that  he  was  doing,  but,  when  he 
did  get  to  bed  nowadays,  he  was  at  least  too  tired  to  picture 
Sidney  Dawson  and  his  wife  traversing  Europe  on  their 
honeymoon  or  to  wonder  what  was  happening  at  Aston 
Ripley.  An  end  must  come  at  some  time,  but  he  could 
not  trouble  himself  to  think  what  form  it  would  take,  and, 
if  Yolande  pouted  and  looked  at  him  with  reproachful 
eyes,  he  would  simply  avoid  her  until  she  had  changed  her 
tune.  He  was  certainly  not  to  be  hunted  out  to  Asia  Minor 
to  please  her ;  for  one  thing,  there  was  too  much  unreality 
in  digging  for  the  defaced  capital  of  a  pillar,  and,  for  an- 
other, he  was  not  equal  to  the  solitude  of  life  with  a  man 
whom  he  hardly  knew  and  the  thoughts  that  would  come 
to  break  his  solitude. 

It  was  a  silent  dinner,  as  far  as  Deryk  was  concerned,  and 
he  had  justified  himself  into  a  fine  indignation  by  the  time 
that  he  went  upstairs.  Yolande  just  lacked  the  experience 
and  perception  to  leave  him  alone,  and  his  indignation  in- 
creased with  every  mark  of  aflfection  that  she  shewed  him. 

"He'll  be  home  in  quite  a  few  months  now,"  she  said, 
returning  to  her  Manisty  theme.  "I  shall  depend  on  you 
to  come  and  meet  him." 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  there'll  be  any  difficulty  about  that," 
he  answered  without  interest.  "Well,  Yolande,  I  must  be 
off.    I  promised  to  be  in  Charles  Street  by  eleven.'* 

"But  why  don't  you  go  to  bed?  It  would  be  so  much 
better  for  you.     You're  simply  wearing  out  your  nerves. 


fi96  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Or,  if  you  don't  want  to  go  home  yet,  come  to  my  flat  and 
play  to  me." 

Deryk  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  should  compromise  you  with  the  whole  of  Stafford's 
Inn,"  he  said. 

"My  housekeeper's  there,  stupid." 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

"It's  no  go,  I'm  afraid.  I  promised  to  go  and  play  to  Mrs. 
iWelman." 

"I  didn't  ask  where  you  were  going." 

"But  /  thought  there  was  no  reason  for  not  telling  you," 
he  answered  tartly,  a  thirst  for  grievance.  "I  don't  know 
what  you've  heard  about  her,  but  I'll  bet  it's  not  true,  and, 
if  it  were,  I  can  really  take  care  of  myself.     Good-night." 

Yolande  retained  his  proffered  hand  in  her  own  for  a 
moment,  looking  him  steadily  in  the  eyes  and  speaking 
with  slow  gravity. 

"I  don't  feel  I  know  you  nowadays,  Deryk,"  she  said. 
"I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  you,  but  I  don't  think  I  am  now. 
I — think  you're  deteriorating." 

He  laughed  with  mirthless  hilarity. 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  You  see,  when  you've  nothing  in  the 
world  to  live  for " 

"You  poor  boy!  When  I  talk  to  you,  I  always  feel  as 
if  I  were  your  mother,  Deryk.  Why  don't  you  let  me  help 
you  a  bit?  If  you'd  only  listen  to  me  a  little  bit,  instead  of 
being  so  wilful !"  She  hesitated  before  taking  what  she 
knew  would  be  the  gravest  decision  of  her  life.  Deryk  did 
not  love  her,  and  she  would  have  to  work  hard  to  make 
him  love  her,  though  ultimately  she  would  succeed.  And 
she  did  not  love  him  at  all,  she  did  not  love  anyone ;  Felix 
Manisty  through  sheer  helplessness  and  childish  charm 
came  nearest  to  her  heart.  But  she  could  spend  herself  to 
make  something  of  Deryk,  something  great.  No  one  else 
would,  no  one  else  could.  She  would  not  be  happy,  per- 
haps she  would  be  something  more.  .  .  .  She  could  not 
stand  by  and  see  him  wasting  himself!  "Don't  go  to 
Charles  Street  to-night !"  she  whispered,  retaining  his  hand 


RECOIL  197 

and  looking  into  his  hot,  restless  eyes.  "Fll  do  anything  in 
the  world  you  ask  me,  if  you'll  stay  here." 

Deryk  laughed  and  withdrew  his  hand. 

"Good-night,  Yolande;  I'm  late  already.  See  you  again 
soon." 

Yolande  sighed  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  sofa  where 
Raymond  was  seated. 

"Another  of  my  failures,  uncle  dear,"  she  began  with  an 
assumption  of  light-hearted  ruefulness.  "I  as  good  as  told 
him  I'd  marry  him — it  was  what  you  wanted  me  to  do, 
remember — and  all  he  would  say  was  that  he  was  going  to 
play  the  piano  to  Mrs.  Welman.  If  I  hadn't  the  sweetest 
disposition  on  earth,  I  should  drop  him  abruptly.  I  can't 
do  that,  though,  while  he  looks  so  rotten.  If  you  were  a 
really  helpful  uncle " 

Raymond  caught  her  hand  and  patted  it  reflectively. 

"This  is  the  end  of  June,"  he  calculated.  "In  a  month's 
time  I  go  to  Vienna  to  buy  some  doctors  for  one  of  my 
hospitals,  and  I  see  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't  come  with 
me.  He  can  come  as  my  secretary,  and  you  as  his  com- 
panion; and  between  us  we'll  tell  him  not  to  make  a  fool 
of  himself.  When  we  get  back,  Felix  will  be  getting  ready 
for  Asia  Minor  again,  and  we  shall  have  several  strings  to 
our  bow.  We  can  send  Deryk  out  with  him,  or  perhaps  we 
shall  have  made  peace  with  Ripley  Court  by  then — there'll 
be  a  hundred  and  one  possibilities  when  I've  given  him  a 
talking-to.  If  I  write  to  him  to-night,  will  you  promise  to 
come?    I  decline  to  regenerate  him  single-handed." 

Yolande  nodded. 

"When  is  Dr.  Manisty  due  back?"  she  asked.  "Don't 
Took  like  that,  dear;  he  never  writes  to  me." 

"Just  about  the  time  we  start,"  Raymond  answered.  "I 
shall  be  sorry  to  miss  him." 

"But  we  shall  see  him  before  he  goes  out  again." 

"He  will  take  good  care  of  that,"  said  Raymond  with  a 
smile. 

Yolande  found  herself  blushing  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Of  course  we  shall.     We're  the  only  friends  he's  'got. 


198  MIDAS  AND  SON 

But  that's  all,  uncle  dear.  I  know  you  think  he's  in  love 
with  me,  you  think  everyone's  in  love  with  me,  which  is 
quite  the  proper  frame  of  mind  for  you,  but  they're  not. 
When  Dr.  Manisty  gets  out  to  Hellenopolis,  he  forgets  my 
very  existence.  It's  rather  humiliating,  when  you  remem- 
ber that  I  made  him,  but  I  told  you  I'd  got  a  very  sweet  dis- 
position. As  long  as  people  are  happy,  I  don't  care,  bless 
them !" 

On  leaving  the  Oakleighs'  house,  Deryk  hailed  a  taxi  and 
drove  to  Charles  Street.  The  drawing-room  was  in  half 
darkness,  when  he  entered,  and  he  found  Mrs.  Welman 
curled  up  on  a  sofa  and  reading  a  book  by  the  light  of  a 
single  lamp.  She  threw  the  book  on  to  the  floor  and  made 
way  for  him  at  her  side,  giving  him  her  hand  to  kiss,  as 
she  listened  to  his  apologies  for  being  late. 

"It  doesn't  matter.  I've  only  just  got  rid  of  Adolf 
Erckmann,"  she  explained.  "By  the  way,  you'll  only  have 
me  to  play  to ;  I  was  too  tired  to  get  anyone  else  to  come." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I'm  too  tired  to  play,"  Deryk  answered. 
"My  scheme  is  to  sit  here,  while  you  talk  to  me.  How  are 
you  and  what  have  you  been  doing,  since  last  I  saw  you?" 

A  moment  passed  before  she  answered  him.  Then,  with 
affected  carelessness,  she  said: 

"Oh,  nothing.  The  usual,  usual  round.  Rather  lonely 
and  miserable,  but  that's  nothing  new.  Tell  me  why  you're 
tired,  Deryk.    Can't  you  sleep?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  she  laid  one  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
drawing  him  to  her  until  his  cheek  lay  against  hers  and  he 
could  feel  her  long  eyelashes  flickering. 

"We  should  look  rather  funny,  if  your  husband  came 
in,"  Deryk  suggested  with  an  embarrassed  laugh. 

She  released  him  suddenly. 

"I'm  sorry,  if  you  think  I'm  not  behaving  properly,"  she 
said  loftily.  "I  was  trying  to  be  kind,  because  you  weren't 
looking  well.  .  .  .    Are. you  too  tired  to  play?" 

Deryk  rose  and  fetched  himself  a  cigarette  from  the 
mantelpiece. 


RECOIL  199 

"Now,  don't  put  on  that  air,  Lucile,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh. 

"It  would  sound  rather  funny,  if  he  heard  you  calling  me 
'Lucile'." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Welman.  What  would  you 
like  me  to  play?" 

She  smiled  and  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"Don't  be  dignified,  Deryk,"  she  begged.  "My  husband 
is  in  Wiesbaden,  and  you  said  you  wanted  me  to  talk  to 
you.  Sit  down  as  you  were  before,  and  let's  console  each 
other.  We're  both  tired  and  both  lonely  and  both  rather, 
rather  miserable,  so  let's  kiss  and  be  friends." 

He  went  back  to  his  old  place  and  raised  her  fingers  to 
his  lips  in  sign  of  amity. 

"That's  not  what  I  call  consoling"  she  pouted. 

"It  was  respectful." 

Again  her  arm  stole  out  and  drew  him  to  her. 

"I  don't  want  respect,  Deryk,"  she  whispered.  "I  want 
to  be  made  a  fuss  of.  Won't  you  kiss  me  properly?"  He 
made  no  sign.  "Don't  you  want  to?  I've  never  asked 
anyone  before." 

Deryk  tried  to  disengage  himself,  but  her  other  arm  was 
linked  round  his  neck. 

"I've  never  kissed  anyone  before — except  once,"  he  said ; 
and  then  combatively,  "I  suppose  you  don't  believe  that." 

"Yes,  I  do.  That's  why  I  always  feel  so  safe  with  you. 
You're  so  young  and  chivalrous.  Oh !  if  you  knew  how  I 
hated  the  set  I  live  in !  They're  bloated  with  money  and  too 
much  to  eat  and  drink:  Lord  Pennington's  hardly  ever 
sober,  and  Erckmann  comes  here,  reeking  of  cigars  and 
talking  broken  English,  and  there's  always  a  crowd  of  silly 
little  boys,  half  of  them  making  love  to  me  and  the  other 
half  trying  to  shock  me.  .  .  .  Then  I  met  you,  and  you 
were  so  fresh  and  clean — you  know  you're  very  good-look- 
ing, Deryk;  you've  got  beautiful  eyes,  much  deeper  and 
softer  than  mine,  and  your  head  looks  as  if  it  had  been  cut 
out  of  marble — and  you  always  treated  me  as  though  you'd 
never  heard  a  word  spoken  against  me.     But  you  must 


200  MIDAS  AND  SON 

have.  ...  I'm  not  quite  as  bad  as  rm  painted,  but  I'm 
nothing  Hke  as  good  as  you  think  me ;  and  I'm  really,  really 
grateful  for  the  way  you  always  behave  to  me.  My  life's 
not  particularly  happy,  but  you've  been  a  great  help  to  me." 

She  unclasped  her  hands  and  lay  back  in  her  comer, 
shading  her  face  from  the  reading  lamp.  Deryk's  eyes  were 
moist  and  soft,  as  he  leant  towards  her  and  raised  her  lips 
to  his. 

"Poor  little  Lucile  !"  he  whispered. 

"No,  don't  kiss  me,  Deryk  !"  she  said.  "I  know  you  think 
it's  wrong.     And  it  is,  if  you  think  it  is." 

"Not  with  you." 

"Yes,  you  do.  You  said  you'd  only  kissed  one  woman  in 
your  life — you'll  be  doing  her  a  wrong." 

His  answer  was  to  bend  forward  until  their  lips  met. 
Her  faint  resistance  died  away,  and  she  allowed  herself 
to  be  drawn  into  his  arms  and  held  there,  still  and  unyield- 
ing. Gradually  the  pressure  of  his  hands  on  her  bare 
shoulders  relaxed,  but,  as  his  quickened  breathing  abated 
its  pace,  she  twined  her  arms  round  his  neck,  stroking  his 
lean  cheeks  and  running  her  fingers  through  his  hair.  The 
hunger  of  many  months'  loneliness  clamoured  to  be  satisfied, 
and  for  the  first  time  after  the  agony  of  the  past  weeks 
he  felt  at  peace. 

The  clock,  striking  midnight,  roused  them  from  their 
trance,  and  Deryk  jumped  up,  protesting  that  he  must  go. 
As  he  took  out  his  case  and  lit  another  cigarette,  he  kept 
his  eyes  averted,  but,  when  he  turned  again  to  the  sofa, 
Mrs.  Welman  was  watching  him  with  a  smile. 

"I  must  go,"  he  repeated. 

"Already?" 

"I'm  afraid  so." 

"You'll  have  a  drink  before  you  go?"  She  made  a  move- 
ment towards  the  bell  and  then  stopped.  "My  maids  will 
all  be  asleep  by  now,  and  they're  at  the  very  top  of  the 
house.  I'll  go  and  fetch  it  myself.  Deryk,  you  have  made 
my  hair  untidy.  If  you  were  really  polite,  you'd  offer  to 
do  it  for  me." 


RECOIL  201 

"I've  got  to  go  home,"  he  answered,  looking  again  at  the 
clock.     "When  shall  I  see  you  again,  Lucile?" 

She  hurried  out  of  the  room  without  answering  and  re- 
turned a  moment  later  with  glasses  and  a  decanter. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  see  me  again,  do  you?"  she 
asked  with  a  provocative  humility  that  stirred  him,  while  he 
felt  it  to  be  unreal.  "I've  forfeited  your  good  opinion — 
Deryk,  it  isn't  fair  to  try  and  kiss  me  when  my  hands  are 
full  and  I  can't  protect  myself!" 

He  laughed  in  disregard  of  the  protest  and  repeated  his 
question. 

"If  you  really,  really  cared  about  seeing  me,  you  wouldn't 
be  in  such  a  hurry  to  go,"  she  complained. 

"My  dear,  look  at  the  time !" 

"But  no  one  knows  you're  here." 

He  stood  irresolute,  gazing  at  the  soft  brown  eyes  and 
pouting  lips;  thinking,  too,  of  the  assurance  with  which 
he  had  defended  their  relationship  to  Yolande  Stornaway. 
In  fleeting  reaction  he  felt  that  his  spirit  had  lost  some  of 
its  bloom  since  he  had  breathed  the  scent  of  Lucile's  hair 
and  rained  kisses  down  on  her  upturned  face;  so  it  would 
seem  to  Yolande's  austere  chastity  of  spirit.  Then  with 
quick  defiance  he  told  himself  that  he  had  done  nothing  that 
mattered  and  that  he  did  not  care  what  Yolande  thought. 

"You  needn't  go  just  yet,"  Lucile  pleaded. 

"I  thought  you  had  to  be  so  jolly  circumspect  on  account 
of  your  husband,"  he  said  with  an  uneasy  laugh. 

She  pressed  him  back  on  to  the  sofa  and  handed  him  a 
tumbler. 

"Let's  forget  him  for — five  minutes,"  she  suggested. 

"We've  forgotten  him  most  of  the  evening.  I've  never 
had  the  honour  of  meeting  him,  Lucile,  but  I  think  I  should 
feel  rather  a  fool,  if  I  ever  did.  It  doesn't  seem  quite  play- 
ing the  game." 

She  turned  from  him  abruptly  and  stood  resting  her  arm 
on  the  mantelpiece  and  staring  down  into  the  grate. 

"Don't  let  me  keep  you,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice;  and 


202  MIDAS  AND  SON 

then  with  a  sudden  cry,  "Oh,  why  didn't  I  let  you  go  when 
you  wanted  to  ?    Why  must  you  hurt  me,  Deryk  ?" 

He  jumped  up  uncomprehendingly  and  threw  his  arms 
round  her  shoulders. 

"Darling,  what  have  I  done?" 

"What  made  you  say  that?  We  haven't  done  him  any 
harm."  Deryk  was  silent.  "You'd  better  go,  if  you  think 
we  have." 

"Lucile " 

She  shook  his  arm  from  her  shoulders  and  threw  herself 
on  to  the  sofa,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  Deryk 
faced  her  with  bemusement  in  his  eyes  and  then  dropped 
on  to  his  knees  and  caught  her  gently  by  the  wrists. 

"I  don't  understand  what  it's  all  about,"  he  said  in  per- 
plexity.   "Lucile,  tell  me  what  I've  done." 

Her  face,  as  he  pulled  away  her  hands,  was  expression- 
less, with  lack-lustre  eyes.  For  a  moment  she  looked  at 
him;  then  disengaged  one  hand  and  began  arranging  her 
hair  where  it  had  broken  loose. 

"I  suppose  you  were  right,"  she  murmured  after  a  long 
silence.  "It  was  my  fault,  I  led  you  on — oh,  yes,  I  did — , 
but  I  forgot  everything,  everything  for  a  moment.  I  was 
quite,  quite  happy."  She  drew  one  hand  wearily  across 
her  eyes,  as  though  she  had  been  wakened  from  sleep.  "I'm 
all  right  now,  Deryk.     Good-bye." 

She  half  rose,  but  he  checked  the  movement  and  sat  be- 
side her  again. 

"You're  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  rid  of  me,  Lucile." 

"You  said  you  had  to  get  home." 

"I  much  prefer  being  here." 

"It  wouldn't  be  'playing  the  game',"  she  answered  with  a 
suggestion  of  taunt  in  her  voice. 

Deryk  walked  half-way  to  the  door,  conscious  that  his 
next  words  would  be  big  with  fate.  He  could  throw  a 
"good-night"  over  his  shoulder  and  walk  home,  knowing 
that  in  the  morning  he  would  be  glad  and  secure  in  his 
own  self-respect.  Or  he  could  consent  to  stay — like  any 
other  man.    Yolandc  would  never  know ;  it  was  not  a  ques- 


RECOIL  203 

tion  of  stealing  Lucile  from  her  husband,  she  had  never 
belonged  to  him;  only  his  own  standards  were  involved, 
and  he  had  abandoned  many  of  them  already  without  great- 
ly noticing  their  subsequent  loss.  His  brain  worked  quickly 
during  his  leisurely  progress  half-way  across  the  room.  He 
recognised  that  he  was  not  in  love  with  Lucile,  that  she 
was  but  an  incident,  that  there  would  be  an  end — probably 
a  troublesome  and  recriminatory  end — to  their  intimacy; 
there  might  also  be  discovery  later  on  and  a  public  scandal, 
after  which  he  would  be  expected  to  marry  her.  (He  won- 
dered if  she  knew  that  he  had  the  money  that  he  made — and 
no  more.)  It  was  going  to  be  a  furtive,  perhaps  a  disas- 
trous, relationship,  and  he  felt  no  overpowering  desire  to 
begin  it ;  his  sense  of  self-control  was  never  stronger ;  he 
could  walk  home  as  easily  as  he  had  come.  .  .  . 

A  slight  sound  behind  him  made  him  turn  round,  and  he 
saw  Lucile  with  her  head  buried  in  her  arms  and  her  shoul- 
ders heaving.  Still  conscious  of  his  detachment,  he  came 
back  and  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa  by  her  side. 

"Lucile !"  he  whispered,  bending  down  until  his  lips 
touched  her  ear. 

"Deryk,  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  angry!"  she  cried. 

"I'm  not  angry,  darling." 

"Yes,  you  are,  or  you  wouldn't  have  gone  away  like  that. 
Oh,  Deryk,  don't  go  away  yet!  I'm  so  miserable,  miser- 
able!" 

For  all  his  detachment,  he  could  feel  his  heart  beating 
quicker,  as  he  lifted  her  on  to  his  knees  and  kissed  her. 
There  was  a  last  moment  of  struggle  and  hesitation  before 
he  waved  jaunty  and  contemptuous  farewell  to  his  old  idols. 
It  was  absurd  to  try  to  be  different  from  other  men.  He 
kissed  her  again  and  tried  to  pull  her  hand  from  her  eyes, 
but  she  protested  in  a  whisper  that  they  were  red  and  that 
she  was  not  fit  to  be  seen.  When  at  length  she  looked  at 
him,  there  was  no  trace  of  tears,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  a 
transparent  comedy  and  that  he  had  duly  played  the  part 
allotted  him 

Next  morning  Deryk  found  an  invitation  from  Raymond 


204  MIDAS  AND  SON 

to  lunch  with  Yolande  and  himself  and  discuss  a  scheme 
for  some  new  work. 

He  telephoned  in  good  humour  and  great  self-confidence 
that  he  would  be  delighted  to  come;  and  after  luncheon 
Raymond  explained  his  proposal  for  a  business  visit  to 
Vienna. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,  Mr,  Stornaway,"  said  Deryk 
during  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  "but  I'm  afraid  I  shan't 
have  time." 

"It  will  be  three  weeks  or  a  month  at  the  outside,"  Ray- 
mond answered.  "Count  it  as  a  holiday,  if  you  like.  It 
will  do  you  all  the  good  in  the  world  to  get  away  from  Lon- 
don; you're  looking  stale,  you  want  a  change  of  air." 

Deryk  nodded  gravely. 

"I  know  I  do,"  he  agreed.  "As  a  matter  of  fact  I'm  going 
out  of  town  immediately.  Young  Fatty  Webster  has  made 
over  to  me  his  bungalow  at  Bray  for  the  summer,  and  I 
was  thinking  of  living  there  and  coming  up  to  town  each 

day." 

There  was  a  pause;  then  Yolande  said, 

"Can't  you  take  a  few  weeks'  real  holiday,  Deryk?  It 
would  do  you  much  more  good  to  knock  off  all  work  and 
come  with  us.  I'll  promise  not  to  preach  to  you,  and  you 
would  enjoy  it." 

"It's  impossible,  Yolande.  The  'Ilkley  Papers'  are  coming 
out  in  the  autumn,  and  I  can't  get  away  till  I've  corrected 
the  proofs." 

"Can't  you  bring  them  with  you?" 

"I  haven't  had  them  from  the  publishers  yet.  I'm  most 
awfully  sorry;  it  sounds  a  delightful  trip." 

Raymond  saw  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  won  by  press- 
ing the  point  and  closed  the  discussion  with  a  word  of  con- 
ventional regret ;  Yolande's  mind  was  already  busily  at  work 
to  find  some  means  of  regaining  control  before  Deryk  finally 
passed  beyond  her  influence.  Deryk  himself  ate  an  excel- 
lent meal  and  talked  with  the  greatest  good-humour  and 
animation.  The  more  he  saw  of  life,  the  easier  it  became ; 
he  felt  that  he  was  playing  the  comedy  with  a  fine,  care- 


RECOIL  205 

less  grace,  accepting  and  mastering  each  situation  as  he  met 
it.  The  double  life  was  far  simpler  than  when  he  first  came 
to  live  in  London;  he  was  far  more  skilled  to  throw  his 
friends  off  the  scent.  Thus,  the  story  of  Fatty  Webster's 
bungalow  at  Bray  rang  true  from  the  start:  he  was  in  fact 
going  down  there  at  the  end  of  the  week:  but  it  was  not 
necessary  to  tell  the  Stornaways  that  Mrs.  Welman  had  a 
house  at  Maidenhead  within  agreeably  short  punting  dis- 
tance. She  was  going  there  that  day  and  proposed  to  stay 
there  until  her  husband's  return  from  Wiesbaden.  They 
had  made  all  arrangements  that  morning,  and,  as  soon  as 
Deryk  had  returned  home  and  changed  his  clothes,  he  set 
out  in  search  of  Webster  and  secured  the  loan  of  the  bun- 
galow, its  servants  and  cellar  from  the  good-natured  owner, 
who  was  flattered  to  be  of  service  to  a  man  who  had  only 
noticed  him  at  Eton  in  order  to  maltreat  him. 

At  the  end  of  luncheon  Raymond  tried  to  compress  into 
three  minutes  the  subject  matter  of  many  sermons  contem- 
plated for  delivery  on  the  journey  to  Vienna.  Prefacing 
the  attack  with  the  statement  that  it  was  no  business  of  his, 
he  said  that  he  had  spent  a  recent  week-end  at  Aston  Rip- 
ley and  heard  with  some  surprise  that  Deryk  had  not  been 
there  since  the  winter. 

"Didn't  Yolande  tell  you  that  I'd  had  a  disagreement  with 
my  father?"  Deryk  answered  with  a  show  of  ingenuous 
wonder.  "He  declined  to  meet  me  on  a  question  of  money, 
and  of  course  I  couldn't  submit  to  that,  so  I  came  away." 

Raymond  stirred  his  cofifee  reflectively. 

"I  didn't  know  any  details,"  he  said.  "We're  rather 
specialists  in  family  quarrels,  we  Stornaways ;  I  had  a  row 
with  my  father,  and  Yolande's  had  one  with  hers.  I  think 
it's  necessary,  if  we  aren't  going  to  sink  down  under  a 
paralysing  load  of  ancestor-worship.  Either  that,  or  you 
must  pop  everyone  over  forty  into  the  lethal  chamber. 
According  to  my  view,  though,  the  thing  should  be  carried 
through  without  animosity.  It's  always  supposed  to  be  bad 
form  in  England  to  shew  your  feelings,  so,  the  moment  I'd 


2o6  MIDAS  AND  SON 

carried  my  point  with  the  old  man,  I  went  and  shook  hands. 
Yolande  did  the  same  with  my  brother." 

Deryk  smiled  a  little  bitterly. 

"But  then  you'd  won,  and  I  haven't,"  he  objected. 

"You've  got  the  money,"  Raymond  pointed  out.  "Don't 
think  I'm  unsympathetic,  I  cordially  approve  your  running 
away  and  making  yourself  independent,  I  wish  more  young 
people  would  do  it.  But  I  repeat,  you've  got  the  money, 
so  why  not  go  and  shake  hands?" 

"Because  that's  the  one  pull  I've  got  over  him,"  Deryk 
answered  between  his  teeth.  "Don't  pretend  Yolande's  not 
told  you  the  whole  story,"  he  went  on  roughly.  "You 
wouldn't  have  gone  back  if  your  father  had  behaved  like 
that." 

Raymond  sucked  at  his  cigar  and  assumed  his  most 
judicial  manner. 

"It's  so  hard  to  say,"  he  confessed.  "I'm  not  vindictive. 
I'd  have  taken  devilish  good  care  to  see  that  the  old  man 
didn't  play  the  same  trick  twice,  but,  once  I  was  up  against 
the  accomplished  fact,  I  should  have  said  'Kismet.'  Or  so 
I  think  nozv;  I  honestly  don't  know  what  I  should  have 
done  at  your  age." 

"Well,  I  know  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  said  Deryk. 

Raymond  nodded. 

"It's  a  matter  in  which  you're  the  only  possible  judge," 
he  said.  "The  one  thing  that  you've  got  to  keep  in  mind 
is,  of  course,  how  you'll  feel  when  it's  too  late.  Your 
father's  a  very  sick  man — I  don't  advance  that  as  any  ex- 
cuse, I'm  for  popping  sick  men  in  the  lethal  chamber — and 
it's  just  a  question  whether  it  won't  pay  you  to  make  his 
last  days  as  comfortable  as  you  can,  consistently  with  your 
own  independence.  Pay  you  in  moral  satisfaction,  I  mean ; 
inward  glow,  all  that  sort  of  thing.  You  see,  when  a  man 
dies  and  you  appreciate  for  the  first  time  that  it's  too  late  to 
pay  him  back  that  fiver  or  apologise  for  upsetting  him,  you 
feel  so  helpless;  naturally,  too, — we've  all  been  brought  up 
on  that  de  mortuis  nonsense — you  only  remember  the  best 
about  them,  what  a  capital  fellow  he  was  when  he  took 


RECOIL  207 

you  out  to  dinner  that  time  before  going  back  to  school. 
And  then  you'll  feel  very  sick  to  think  that  you  weren't 
friends  when  he  died —  At  least  that's  been  my  experience ; 
you  may  be  different,  but  I  feel  I've  let  a  number  of  fellows 
go  before  I  realised  that  it  was  too  late.  But  these  are 
gloomy  thoughts  for  a  luncheon  party,  and  by  the  same 
token  I  must  be  getting  back  to  work.  I'm  sorry  you  can't 
come  to  Vienna  with  us,  Deryk,  but  very  glad  to  get  this 
glimpse  of  you  to-day." 

Deryk  stood  without  answering  for  several  minutes.  Ray- 
mond put  on  his  hat  and  buttoned  his  gloves. 

"I  think  my  father  ought  to  apologise  to  me,"  Deryk  said 
at  length. 

"Fathers  never  do,  my  boy.  It's  part  of  the  general 
make-up." 

"He's  never  personally  asked  me  to  come  back,  he's  never 
alluded  to — you  know,  the  other  thing." 

"That's  part  of  his  particular  make-up,"  said  Raymond 
easily.  "But,  look  here,  I  really  don't  know  what  right  I've 
got  to  interfere;  I  might  be  a  father  myself.  Good-bye, 
Deryk." 

He  hurried  away  with  his  arm  through  Yolande's,  leav- 
ing Deryk  to  fumble  uncertainly  with  his  gloves. 

"Might  as  well  have  been  talking  to  the  nearest  pillar- 
box,  I  suppose,  chick?"  he  asked  of  his  niece  with  a  rueful 
smile. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so,  uncle  darling.     It's  good  seed." 

"These  boys  think  I'm  so  frightfully  wise,"  murmured 
Raymond  wonderingly.  "Can't  make  out  why.  I  merely 
tell  'em  not  to  make  fools  of  themselves.  But  it  doesn't 
matter  anyway." 


Raymond  Stornaway  and  his  niece  went  alone  to  Vienna 
towards  the  end  of  July.  As  ever  with  Raymond,  it  was 
a  marauding  enterprise,  undertaken  this  time  to  rob  the 
Viennese  of  some  of  their  best  physicians  and  surgeons. 

Adopting  his  favourite  old  attitude  of  the  bland,  sane 


208  MIDAS  AND  SON 

man  surrounded  by  imbeciles,  he  had  demonstrated  that  the 
world  was  sick  and  that  no  one  would  cure  it,  no  one  wanted 
to  cure  it,  no  one  knew  how  to  cure  it,  no  one  would  pay 
to  cure  it.  Yet  all  admitted  that  sick,  unhappy  men  were 
bad  workers.  He  must  cure  it  himself,  starting  with  Eng- 
land, and  it  must  pay  its  way,  like  everything  else.  A  city 
of  rivers  and  woods  was  to  be  built  on  the  crest  of  a  moun- 
tain-chain and  given  over  to  healing  these  troublesome  sick. 
Such  skill  and  attention  as  money  could  buy  were  to  be 
provided,  and  in  return  each  patient  on  admission  was  to 
surrender  one  tenth  of  his  annual  income.  ("These  damned 
ruffians  won't  support  my  hospitals  voluntarily,  so  I  shall 
have  to  make  them.")  The  counting-house  clerk,  who  re- 
ceived four  pounds  a  week,  would  present  himself  for  ex- 
amination and,  after  diagnosis,  pay  his  twenty  pounds. 
Sir  Aylmer  Lancing,  if  the  examining  physician  decided  to 
accept  him,  would  pay  a  trifle  over  one  hundred  thousand 
pounds ;  thereafter  both  would  be  treated  equally  with  equal 
right  to  the  services  of  the  most  expensive  specialists  in 
any  part  of  the  world,  who  were  to  be  chosen  by  an  admin- 
istrative board  and  paid  a  fixed  salary.  Raymond  aimed 
at  paying  them  exactly  double  what  they  had  received  in 
their  most  properous  year,  but  in  the  incubation  of  his 
scheme  there  was  difficulty  in  arriving  at  accurate  figures. 
When  the  establishment  charges  had  been  met,  the  balance 
of  the  year's  takings  was  to  be  handed  by  the  trustees  to 
the  administrative  board  to  apply  to  the  erection  of  new 
buildings  and  the  development  of  research.  On  paper  the 
scheme  had  been  worked  out  in  detail,  but  Raymond  had 
yet  to  surround  himself  with  a  sufficient  number  of  the 
most  skilled  practitioners  in  medicine  and  surgery  and  to 
wean  them  from  private  practice,  often,  moreover,  to  exile 
them  from  their  own  country.  And  he  had  to  find  the  initial 
funds  to  build  his  city  and  guarantee  the  salaries  of  the 
staff  for  a  period  of  years.  However  small  his  beginnings, 
the  original  outlay  would  be  gigantic. 

"But  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  mine's  the  only 
way,"  he  told  Yolande,  with  his  customary  assurance  of 


RECOIL  209 

manner  and  vigour  of  speech,  as  they  settled  into  the  Orient 
Express  at  Ostend,  "We've  spoilt  these  scoundrels  of  doc- 
tors by  erecting  them  into  a  priesthood,  so  that  they  never 
dare  say  they  don't  know  anything;  they'd  never  accept 
the  logical  position  of  being  paid  an  annual  retaining  fee 
to  keep  people  in  health,  the  fee  to  be  pro  rata  re-paid  for 
every  day  that  the  patient  was  ill;  what  are  you  to  do? 
All  reforms  come  from  the  laity,  of  course;  sanitation, 
ventilation,  manipulative  surgery — and  the  doctors  oppose 
them  at  every  step,  like  the  infernal,  fraudulent  Trade 
Union  that  they  are.  But  in  other  respects  the  laity's 
only  fit  for  the  lethal  chamber;  you  pay  some  charlatan 
two  guineas  to  tell  you  you're  over-smoking  and  then  light 
a  cigar  from  the  match-box  on  his  confounded  consulting- 
room  table.  The  only  way  is  to  pay  the  institute  such  a  fee 
— ten  per  cent  of  your  income,  my  dear — that  it  can't  aflford 
not  to  cure  you  and  to  bleed  the  fool  of  a  patient  till  he 
feels  that  he  must  get  something  for  his  money.  My  City 
of  Health's  going  to  be  the  beginning  of  a  new  world.  My 
dear,  you  don't  know  what  you  can  do  with  healthy  people ; 
you  can  make  'em  happy;  you  may  even  be  able  to  make 
'em  good.  I'm  a  fat  old  man  and  I  can  remember  Lesseps' 
trying  to  build  the  Canal  at  Panama.  There  was  an  amount 
of  corruption  to  make  your  hair  stand  on  end,  and  he  tried 
to  cut  through  at  ocean  level  and  a  number  of  things  of 
that  kind,  but  what  killed  the  canal  was  fever.  I've  had  it, 
and  it  dam'  nearly  killed  me.  And  I  saw  the  fever  being 
cleaned  away  afterwards.  And  lately  I've  seen  the  new 
canal  beginning  to  build.  There's  a  parable  for  you,  chick." 
On  arriving  at  Vienna,  Raymond  called  at  the  Embassy 
and  put  Yolande  in  charge  of  the  wife  of  one  of  the  Sec- 
retaries ;  for  a  fortnight  she  wandered  in  the  morning  round 
Europe's  most  beautiful  city  and  drove  in  the  afternoon 
to  the  deep-wooded  suburbs  of  Schonbrunn,  returning  at 
night  to  dine  and  listen  to  music.  He  saw  her  only  at  oc- 
casional meals,  and  the  rest  of  his  day  was  devoted  to  ex- 
pounding the  scheme  of  his  institution.  At  the  fortnight's 
end  he  announced  his  intention  of  taking  a  week's  holiday 


2IO  MIDAS  AND  SON 

before  returning  and  of  starting  it  that  night  with  dinner 
anywhere  that  Yolande  chose.  They  dined,  accordingly,  at 
Sacher's  and  looked  in  for  an  hour  at  the  Apollo ;  but  the 
house  was  stifling,  and  she  had  to  beg  to  be  taken  into  fresh 
air. 

"Personally  I  can  sit  for  hours  just  watching  people,"  he 
said,  as  they  threaded  their  way  through  the  crowds  on 
the  pavements  of  the  Ring-Strasse.  "And  for  sentimental 
reasons  I  should  like  to  sit  in  the  Opern-Cafe  just  once 
again  before  I  die;  it  was  a  favourite  haunt  of  mine  when 
I  was  at  the  Embassy,  but  you  have  to  be  very  careful  what 
you  say,  because  everything's  overheard.  I  can  tell  you 
a  story  about  that." 

He  led  the  way  across  the  street  to  the  gaily  Hghted  front 
of  a  cafe  with  three  open  bays  divided  by  trellis-work  parti- 
tions. A  waiter  served  them  with  coffee  and  the  invariable 
squat  tumblers  of  cold  water,  and  Raymond  leaned  back 
with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  watching  the  idle  stream  that 
flowed  and  eddied  on  the  broad  pavement  before  them. 
The  babel  of  tongues  sounded  like  the  drone  of  a  half- 
heard  mass,  German  predominating  with  occasional  inter- 
ruptions in  low  musical  Magyar,  abrupt  Italian  cadences 
or  staccato  outbursts  of  Czech. 

"What  was  the  story,  uncle  dear?"  Yolande  asked  be- 
tween sips  of  her  coffee. 

Raymond's  chubby  face  broke  into  smiles,  and  his  eyes 
twinkled. 

"Oh,  it  was  my  first  and  last  public  riot,"  he  began.  "I 
was  sitting  here  one  night  a  year  or  two  ago,  when  two 
boys  came  in  and  ordered  supper.  One,  I  may  tell  you,  was 
our  young  friend  Summertown,  the  other  was  a  wild  Irish- 
man named  O'Rane,  who  was  supposed  to  be  in  charge  of 
him;  I  found  afterwards  that  he  was  a  friend  of  George 
Oakleigh's.  They  fell  into  conversation  with  an  Hungarian 
and  became  rather  animated.  Not  knowing  the  language, 
I  can't  tell  you  what  they  said,  but  it  was  sufficiently  trea- 
sonable or  offensive  or  something  to  bring  an  Austrian 
officer  from  the  far  side  of  the  partition,  and  after  that 


RECOIL  211 

it  was  a  matter  of  moments  before  they  came  to  blows. 
Well,  outwardly,  at  least,  I'm  a  respectable,  middle-aged 
man,  so  I  cleared  out  quicker  than  I've  ever  moved  before, 
but  in  thirty  seconds  every  man's  teeth  were  meeting  in 
his  neighbour's  throat.  They  brought  in  the  police,  there 
were  drawn  swords  whirling,  and  in  the  thick  of  it  I  could 
see  young  O'Rane  fighting  like  a  she-devil  with  one  arm 
broken  and  useless  and  the  blood  streaming  down  one  side 
of  his  face.  Then  Summertown  or  somebody  smashed  the 
lamp,  and  I  went  back  to  my  hotel  before  the  anti-English 
feeling  spread.  I  believe  they  were  both  packed  out  of  the 
country  next  day,  but  it's  a  marvel  that  there  was  anything 
to  pack.  I  tell  you  the  story  in  case  you  feel  disposed  to 
deliver  a  speech  on  the  independence  of  Bohemia  or  any- 
thing of  that  kind." 

Yolande  laughed  and  shook  her  head. 

"Too  tired  and  lazy,  thanks,"  she  said.  Then  she  lowered 
her  voice.  "But  you  might  go  round  and  repeat  that  story 
the  other  side  of  the  partition ;  I'm  afraid  it  couldn't  have 
been  heard,  and  there's  a  man  there  growling  and  grousing 
and  finding  fault  in  a  way  that  makes  me  blush  for  my 
country." 

She  stopped  to  listen  again,  but  the  storm  was  spent,  and 
only  an  occasional  rumble  of  discontent  made  itself  heard. 

"Oh,  it's  gone  down  appallingly  since  the  old  days,"  nar- 
rated the  voice.  "The  first  time  I  was  here  must  have  been 
twenty,  nearly  five  and  twenty  years  ago.  I  came  with  old 
George  Parsons — he's  dead  now,  poor  fellow ;  died  of  sun- 
stroke in  India — and  we  made  up  our  minds  to  see  life. 
Well,  in  those  days  there  was  a  celebrated  French  actress 
called — it  wasn't  Celestine,  but  it  might  have  been.  Chris- 
tine? No,  it  wasn't  Christine.  She  died  ten  years  ago  on 
the  night  of  her  benefit,  when  she  was  leaving  the  stage  to 
marry  George  Conolly.  It's  curious  how  he  met  her.  As 
you  know,  he's  one  of  the  Durham  Conollys — the  people 
who  own  the  mines " 

Raymond  rose  silently  and  bent  down  to  his  niece. 

"I  should  have  recognised  the  manner,"  he  whispered, 


212  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"even  if  I  hadn't  spotted  the  voice.    I'm  going  to  interrupt." 

"But,  uncle,  you  mustn't!"  answered  Yolande,  who  also 
had  recognised  the  voice.    "They're  on  their  honeymoon." 

"A  man  has  no  business  to  murder  a  story  even  on  a 
honeymoon.     Come  on." 

He  finished  his  coffee  and  walked  boldly  round  the  parti- 
tion to  the  table  where  Sidney  Dawson  and  his  wife  were 
seated.  Both  were  in  travelling  clothes,  Sidney's  lacking 
their  usual  spruceness,  and  Idina  looked  tired  and  white, 
as  she  sat  resting  her  cheek  on  her  hand  and  nodding  per- 
functorily at  each  new  movement  in  her  husband's  story. 
At  sight  of  Raymond  both  jumped  to  their  feet  with  ex- 
clamations of  surprise.  For  a  moment  surprise  mingled 
with  resentment  on  Sidney's  face,  as  though  he  felt  that  a 
honeymoon,  however  much  prolonged,  should  be  inviolable, 
but  Idina  was  already  making  room  for  the  newcomers, 
and  he  collected  two  more  chairs  and  offered  an  adequate 
welcome. 

"You're  quite  the  last  people  we  expected  to  meet,"  said 
Raymond,  as  he  settled  himself. 

Idina's  cheeks  were  pink  with  pleasure,  and  her  eyes 
shone. 

"It  is  nice  to  meet  friends !"  she  exclaimed.  "What  are 
you  doing  here  ?    We  only  arrived  to-day." 

For  a  while  there  was  a  quick  exchange  of  questions 
and  answers.  The  Dawsons  had  started  out  to  Constanti- 
nople and  were  making  their  way  slowly  home  through 
Greece  and  up  the  Danube  from  Pesth.  They  had  not 
decided  on  their  next  stopping-place,  as  Sidney  could  net 
make  up  his  mind  whether  to  try  a  cure  at  Marienbad  or 
to  return  to  his  own  doctor  in  London.  Undoubtedly,  as  he 
told  Yolande,  there  was  something  wrong;  he  had  lost  his 
appetite,  though,  to  be  sure,  for  years  he  had  not  eaten 
enough  to  keep  a  sparrow  alive;  he  could  not  sleep,  even 
the  three  or  four  hours  to  which  he  had  gradually  sunk; 
sudden  attacks  of  giddiness,  too,  were  becoming  more  fre- 
quent. ,  .  .  And  his  nerves  were  out  of  order.  .  .  .  Yo- 


RECOIL  213 

lande  listened  patiently  with  one  ear,  trying  with  the  other 
to  catch  what  Idina  was  saying  to  Raymond. 

"But,  in  spite  of  it  all,  you  must  have  had  a  wonderful 
time,"  she  broke  in  at  length.    "I  envy  you." 

"Wonderful !"  Idina  echoed. 

"Of  course,  I  remember  the  places  before  they  were 
over-run  by  tourists,"  said  Sidney  grudgingly.  "In  the  old 
days — take  this  place,  for  instance;  trams  on  the  Ring- 
Strasse " 

"Lethal  chamber,"  murmured  Raymond. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ?" 

"I  said  that  the  people  who  started  them  were  only  fit 
for  a  lethal  chamber,"  Raymond  explained  hurriedly.  Then 
he  looked  from  bride  to  bridegroom.  "Well,  married  life 
seems  to  suit  you,  and  I  ask  you  to  accept  my  best  wishes 
for  all  happiness.    Now " 

"But  you're  not  going?" 

All  the  animation  died  out  of  Idina's  face,  and  she  was 
pouting  with  disappointment.  For  more  than  two  months 
she  and  Sidney  had  travelled  alone  and  lived  alone  in  big 
hotels,  where  she  was  never  allowed  the  opportunity  of 
seeking  acquaintances  in  the  public  rooms.  In  part  her 
husband  wished  the  honeymoon  to  be  a  royal  progress  with 
such  ease,  comfort  and  luxury  as  money  could  buy ;  in  part 
he  wanted  to  keep  to  himself  the  prize  which  he  had  so 
painfully  won.  On  steamers  and  in  other  places,  he  had 
noticed  a  tendency  among  their  fellow  travellers  to  engage 
Idina  in  conversation  and  to  look  at  her  with  a  familiarity 
which  he  had  the  best  grounds  for  resenting.  At  Malta, 
where  he  took  her  to  lunch  on  board  the  "Alligator,"  he  had 
been  compelled  to  speak  rather  sharply  to  one  silly  boy.  .  .  . 

Raymond  spread  out  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  urbanity. 

"I  don't  want  to  go,  I  need  hardly  say,"  he  told  her.  "But 
I  gathered  from  my  niece,  before  we  broke  in  on  you,  that 
I  was  doing  the  wrong  thing.    So  naturally " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sat  down  again.  Sidney 
looked  closely  for  a  moment  from  Raymond  to  his  wife  and 
then  took  out  his  watch. 


214  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"I'm  not  sure  that  zue  shan't  have  to  be  moving,"  he  said. 
"It's  a  bit  chilly  to  be  sitting  about  in  the  open.  In  the  old 
days  I  never  felt  the  cold — wore  the  same  thickness  of  un- 
derclothes summer  and  winter,  you  know,  always  took  my 
cold  tub  in  the  morninjj " 

Idina's  sudden  look  of  disappointment  and  loneliness  had 
not  been  lost  on  Raymond,  and  he  turned  to  her  with  the  air 
of  an  inspiration. 

"Why  not  go  somewhere  under  cover?"  he  suggested. 
"You're  not  too  tired?  Good.  Dawson,  what  about  the 
Oiscau  Blcuf  Your  wife  will  be  able  to  hear  some  real 
gipsy  music  there.     Or  perhaps  you  know  a  better  place." 

Sidney  hesitated  and  lost  his  opportunity. 

"All  the  best  places  are  shut  down,"  he  complained. 
"There  used  to  be  a  cabaret  off  the  Roten-Sturm  called — 
no,  I  can't  remember  the  name  for  the  moment,  but  I  see 
there's  a  horrible  Automat  restaurant  there  now.  The 
Oiscau  Bleu  is  this  side  of  the  Ballplatz,  isn't  it?  You 
won't  get  a  real  Hungarian  orchestra  there ;  they  don't  exist 
nowadays,  it's  all  faked  for  American  visitors.  But,  if 
anyone  likes  that  kind  of  thing " 

He  sent  Raymond  ahead  to  lead  the  way,  elaborately  giv- 
ing an  arm  to  his  own  wife.  Throughout  the  honeymoon 
he  had  found  Idina  fascinating,  fairy-like,  a  woman  for 
whom  men  would  sacrifice  empires,  responsive  to  his  moods, 
appreciative  and  sympathetic.  So  she  had  continued  until 
that  night,  but  the  appearance  of  Raymond  and  Yolande 
had  stimulated  her  to  a  height  of  fascination  which  she  had 
never  shewn  him,  of  which  he  would  not  have  believed  her 
capable.  By  comparison  she  might  have  been  dull  before — 
might  have  found  him  dull.  .  .  . 

His  mind  went  back  to  an  interview  with  his  sister  the 
da}^  before  his  marriage.  He  had  gone  down  to  Sussex,  nom- 
inally to  collect  clothes  and  to  warn  her  that  she  must  move 
out  of  the  Grange  before  his  return,  in  reality  to  punish  her 
for  her  treatment  of  Idina.  He  had  gone  richly  prepared 
with  speeches  and  had  laid  siege  to  the  house  with  great 
pomp.     All  that  he  now  remembered,  however,  was  that 


RECOIL  215; 

his  sister  had  marched  out  with  full  honours  of  war.  There 
was  no  fool  like  an  old  fool,  she  began  with  a  cheerful 
affectation  of  sorrow,  but  it  would  interest  her  to  know  why, 
precisely,  he  thought  Idina  was  marrying  him.  There 
followed  a  damaging  inventory  of  his  physical  character- 
istics and  personal  habits,  ending  with  a  succession  of 
gloomy  prognostications.  How  long  could  he  keep  level 
with  a  girl  less  than  half  his  age?  How  could  an  elderly 
invalid  curb  her  from  running  wild — especially  with  the 
knowledge  that  he  already  had  of  her  ?  All  right !  All  right ! 
She  wasn't  saying  anything,  she  wasn't  insinuating  any- 
thing. AH  she  meant  was  that  the  girl  was  pretty  in  her 
way;  young  men  would  want  to  meet  her  at  dances  and 
put  their  arms  round  her  waist;  that  sort  of  thing  ended 
in  but  one  way ;  everyone  knew  what  young  men  were.  .  .  . 
She  pursued  Sidney  into  his  dressing-room  and  camped  on 
a  chair  by  the  door,  with  her  hands  primly  clasped  in  her 
lap  and  her  pale  eyes  brightly  malevolent.  Her  brother 
flung  coats  and  boats  into  a  top-heavy  pile  and  affected  to 
disregard  her.  'T  was  in  London  last  week,"  she  went  on, 
when  all  else  failed.  'T  asked  Madame  Christine  what  she 
thought  of  it,  and  Estelie — she  was  the  medium,  you  know, 
that  day — Estelie  said  that  your  friend  Captain  Melville 
was  trying  to  reach  you.  When  the  message  came — you 
won't  like  it,  but  it's  my  duty  to  tell  you — Captain  Melville 
said,  Toor  old  Sid!  He  may  be  her  first,  but  he  won't 
be  her  last  by  all  the  gods.'  You  remember  his  curious  way 
of  saying  'by  all  the  gods.'     It  gave  me  the  queerest  turn." 

Once  inside  the  cabaret  and  face  to  face  with  a  white- 
haired,  middle-aged  man  of  impeccable  respectability,  Sid- 
ney felt  that  he  had  been  unduly  nervous.  He  felt  also, 
however,  that  Idina's  youth  and  inexperience  stood  in  need 
of  protection.  .  .  .  Again  and  again  he  wondered  why  she 
had  flagged  in  the  last  few  weeks.  .  .  . 

As  soon  as  their  eyes  were  used  to  the  blazing  white  and 
gold  after  the  half-darkness  of  the  streets,  Raymond  made 
his  way  to  an  empty  table  at  the  back  of  the  room.  On  the 
long  sofas  under  the  Degas  prints  on  the  walls  lounged  a 


2i6  MIDAS  AND  SON 

broken  row  of  officers  in  uniform,  women  in  bright  colours, 
and  men  in  evening  dress.  A  muffled  metallic  rattle,  punc- 
tuated by  rings  of  a  bell,  came  from  the  bar,  where  a  jaded 
American  tender  in  shirt  sleeves  and  white  apron  mechan- 
ically shook  cocktails  and  as  mechanically  recorded  the 
score.  The  Hungarian  orchestra,  swarthy,  broad-nosed 
and  beady-eyed,  was  temporarily  at  rest,  but  one  guest  after 
another  made  his  way  to  the  leader  and  stated  his  choice. 

"How  long  is  it  since  you  left  England?"  Idina  inquired 
of  Yolande.  'T  wrote  to  you  from  Athens  to  say  that  we'd 
met  Professor  Manisty  and  that  he  sent  you  all  sorts  of 
messages.    Did  you  get  my  letter?" 

"I  expect  it's  waiting  for  me  at  home,"  Yolande  answered 
carelessly.  "You  know  he's  starting  back  quite  soon?  He 
has  to  be  formally  installed  in  the  Lancing  Chair  of 
Archseolog}%" 

Idina  was  silent  for  many  moments. 

"You  make  me  feel  quite  homesick,"  she  said  at  length. 
*'How  are  Sir  Aylmer  and  everybody?  It  seems  ages  since 
I  was  at  Aston  Ripley." 

"I  tliink  they're  all  about  the  same,"  Yolande  answered, 
"but  I've  not  been  invited  there  since  the  quarrel ;  hardly 
anyone  has,  in  fact.  Every  week  or  two  Sir  Aylmer  gets 
one  of  these  awful  attacks,  and  you  think  he  must  die,  but 
he  seems  to  pull  round  by  sheer  force  of  will.  It's  really 
terrible  to  think  of  him  lying  there,  refusing  to  die,  while 
Deryk,  who  can  be  every  bit  as  obstinate  when  he  likes,  re- 
fuses to  see  him ;  I  believe  Sir  Aylmer  would  sacrifice  ever}'- 
thing  he's  got  to  bring  Deryk  back.  And  the  awful  thing, 
though  I've  never  breathed  this  to  a  soul,  is  that  /  per- 
suaded him  to  run  away  and  I  can't  persuade  him  to  return." 

She  sighed  and  abandoned  the  discussion,  leaning  back 
in  her  corner  and  watching  the  crowded,  swiftly  changing 
room  through  half-closed  eyes.  A  moment  later  she  was 
startled  to  find  Idina's  head  confidentially  close  to  her  own 
and  to  hear  her  voice,  sunk  to  a  whisper  and  discreetly 
non-committal  in  tone  or  use  of  words. 

"How  is  he  ?"  she  began ;  and,  when  Yolande  hesitated. 


RECOIL  217 

"I  don't  know  how  much  you  know,  but  I'm —  However  he 
may  have  treated  me,  you  know.  We'd  been  brought  up 
together  all  our  lives,  nearly." 

Yolande  still  hesitated. 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  say,"  she  answered  at  length. 
"You  see,  I  do  know  most  of  the  story,  but  not  quite  all. 
You — you  pretty  well  smashed  up  poor  old  D.,  you  know. 
After  he  got  your  letter " 

Idina's  lips  parted  in  surprise. 

"But  it  was  he " 

Unperceived  by  the  men,  Yolande  contrived  to  find 
Idina's  hand  and  press  it. 

"My  dear,  we  shan't  do  a  bit  of  good  by  discussing  it," 
she  whispered  gently.  "There  was  some  misunderstanding 
— no,  please,  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  it — and  you  broke 
apart " 

"He  lied  to  me,"  Idina  interrupted  with  sudden,  unexpect- 
ed anger  that  flushed  her  cheeks. 

Yolande  shook  her  head. 

"He  couldn't,  if  he  tried.  I  know  most  of  his  bad  qual- 
ities. We  really  oughtn't  to  discuss  it,  but,  in  justice  to  him, 
he  gave  you  every  ounce  of  love  that  he  had  got  in  him ;  and 
so — I'm  not  blaming  you,  I  don't  know  the  facts — it  was 
a  frightful  shock  and  it's  bound  to  make  some  difference  to 
his  life.    You  asked  how  he  was,  and,  well,  that's  how  he  is." 

Idina  had  a  defence  on  her  lips,  but  it  was  interrupted 
by  the  arrival  of  the  waiter  with  their  supper.  While  the 
others  ate  and  talked,  she  played  with  her  food  an  dthought 
once  more,  in  a  fever  of  self-justification,  of  the  stages 
by  which  Deryk's  affection  had  waned  and  died ;  the 
stages,  too,  by  which  she  had  discovered  the  waning. 

"You  think  he  was  in  earnest,"  she  began  again  in  a 
whisper,  as  soon  as  her  husband  and  Raymond  were  deep 
in  conversation. 

Yolande  turned  to  her  compassionately. 

"What  good  shall  we  do  by  talking  about  it?"  she  asked. 
"I've  said  more  than  I  meant  to,  as  it  is.  Don't  think  I'm 
blaming  you !" 


2i8  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"But  you've  accused  me  of  not  doing  him  justice,"  Idina 
returned  combatively. 

"My  dear,  /  advised  him  to  break  free  from  Sir  Aylmer 
the  moment  he  fell  in  love  with  you.  I  saw  him  when  he 
was  working  himself  to  death  in  London ;  I  know  that  he 
adored  you  and  that  no  other  woman  ever  entered  his  head. 
And  I  saw  him  two  days  after  he  got  your  letter.  But  what 
does  it  matter  who  was  right  or  wrong  ?  The  thing's  passed 
out  of  our  control." 

For  the  rest  of  the  evening  Idina  hardly  spoke,  and 
Yolande  watched  her  with  a  pain  at  her  heart,  wondering 
what  she  was  thinking.  Supper  came  to  an  end,  their 
neighbours  gradually  scattered,  and  still  the  reverie  con- 
tinued unbroken,  so  that,  when  Sidney  wanted  to  go  home, 
he  had  to  address  her  three  times. 

"I'm  sorry!  I  was  sleepy,  I  suppose,"  she  exclaimed, 
rallying  with  an  effort  that  Yolande  alone  saw.  "Yes,  we 
ought  to  be  going  home;  it's  really  late.  Miss  Stornaway, 
it's  been  delightful,  meeting  you  Uke  this ;  I  do  hope  you'll 
let  me  come  and  see  you,  when  we're  back  in  London." 

They  exchanged  their  farewells,  but,  while  Raymond  and 
Sidney  disputed  the  privilege  of  paying  the  bill,  Idina  hung 
behind  with  Yolande. 

"You'll  be  seeing  Deryk,  when  you  bet  back?"  she  began 
hurriedly. 

"I'm  not  going  to  give  him  any  message,"  Yolande  an- 
swered. 

"You  can  tell  him  that  I — wronged  him,"  Idina  pleaded 
with  lowered  eyes. 

"But  what  good  can  it  do  ?"  asked  Yolande  for  the  sixth 
time. 

The  men  were  awaiting  them,  and  Idina,  smiling  good- 
bye, hastened  forward.  On  reaching  her  hotel,  she  com- 
plained of  feeling  tired  and  left  Sidney  to  smoke  his  final 
cheroot  by  himself.  She  had  undressed  and  brushed  her 
hair  and  was  already  in  bed,  when  he  came  up,  and  with 
eyes  nearly  closed,  feigning  sleep,  she  watched  the  light 
from  his  dressing-room  shining  through  the  open  door  and 


RECOIL  219 

throwing  gigantic  shadows  on  to  the  walls.  A  grotesque 
black  figure,  with  preposterous  gestures,  folded  smoke-laden 
clothes  and  with  vast,  sweeping  movements  washed  face 
and  combed  hair.  Growing  fainter  but  more  enormous,  it 
advanced  into  her  room  and  borrowed  a  manicure-set  from 
her  dressing-table.  Substance  and  shadow  were  now  both 
within  her  vision,  and,  as  he  turned,  the  light  blazed  merci- 
lessly on  to  his  sloping  shoulders  and  wrinkled  neck. 

"Asleep,  Idina?"  he  asked,  looking  closely  at  her. 

A  drowsy  murmur  escaped  her  lips,  and,  uncertain 
whether  she  was  wide  enough  awake  to  attend  to  him,  he 
made  shift  with  talking  to  himself. 

"The  beauty  of  these  electric  lights  is  that  tliey're  hung 
so  that  you  get  no  light  anywhere  that  you  want  it.  In  the 
old  days  of  candles — "  With  an  impatient  exclamation  he 
threw  down  the  manicure  set  with  a  clatter,  turned  off  the 
hght,  kissed  his  wife  on  the  forehead  and  clambered  into 
bed. 


Yolande  was  hardly  to  see  the  Dawsons  again  until  their 
return  to  England  two  months  later.  From  motives  which 
she  did  not  trouble  to  analyse  and  in  disobedience  to  her 
own  precepts  she  called  at  their  hotel  and  was  disappointed 
to  find  that  they  were  out.  Idina  wrote  a  letter  of  effusive 
thanks  for  the  call  and  suggested  times  and  places  for  meet- 
ing, but  it  was  only  on  the  day  of  their  departure  from 
Vienna  that  they  had  a  moment's  conversation  in  the  Gra- 
ben.  Sidney  was  buying  cigars,  and,  when  he  had  dropped 
out  of  earshot  for  a  moment,  Idina  turned  to  Yolande  with 
an  air  of  embarrassed  obstinacy. 

"I  want  you  to  give  him  that  message,  you  know.  It 
won't  do  any  good  exactly,  but  you  told  me  that  he  was 
taking  it  to  heart.  He  can  at  least  know  that  I'm  sorry  to 
have  misjudged  him." 

"I  shan't  even  say  I've  seen  you,"  Yolande  answered  with 
no  less  obstinacy.  "Of  course,  if  he  ever  asks  me  whether 
we've  met,  I  shall  tell  him  about  it,  but  you  and  he  are 


220  MIDAS  AND  SON 

not  likely  to  cross  each  other's  paths,  and  it's  better  that  you 
shouldn't  even  think  of  each  other.  You  closed  the  chapter 
once,  and  there's  nothing  to  be  gained  by  reopening  it." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  emergence  of 
Sidney  from  the  shop.  Yolande  said  good-bye  and  made 
her  way  back  to  her  hotel,  where  she  found  her  uncle  and 
invited  his  opinion  whether  the  Dawson  marriage  was  likely 
to  be  a  success. 

"I'm  prejudiced,"  she  admitted,  "because  I  love  her; 
she's  such  a  soft,  affectionate,  tender  little  thing,  even  if 
there's  not  a  great  lot  inside  her  head;  he  always  gives 
me  cold  shivers.  She  seemed  so  bored,  as  if  she  had  lost 
all  interest  in  life." 

"Look  her  up  in  London,"  Raymond  counselled.  "You're 
the  only  friend  of  her  own  age  that  she's  got.  I  really 
didn't  have  much  chance  of  observing  her  that  night :  Daw- 
son was  so  full  of  his  own  complaints." 

"I  had  my  share  of  it,"  Yolande  protested  ruefully.  "I 
wonder  what  would  happen,  if  he  ever  had  anything  really 
wrong  with  him." 

Raymond  answered  with  an  irrelevancy  and  took  her 
in  to  luncheon.  Sidney's  health  was  probably  for  once 
not  a  matter  for  scepticism,  and  the  diagnosis  of  a  physician 
in  Buda  Pesth  had  been  disquieting;  for  the  moment  Sidney 
held  no  opinion  of  his  own,  but  he  was  going  from  Vienna 
to  Marienbad  for  a  second  opinion  and,  perhaps,  a  course. 
The  trouble  might  be  functional  or  it  might  be  organic; 
either  was  serious,  but  with  the  one  he  could  look  forward 
with  prudence  to  years  of  life ;  with  the  other — Sidney 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  he  recalled  the  hesitating  Eng- 
lish of  the  Hungarian  doctor;  after  all,  it  was  no  good 
taking  a  second  opinion,  if  you  were  going  to  frighten 
yourself  to  death  with  the  first.  But  it  could  not  be  denied 
that  he,  the  thinnest  of  men  normally,  was  growing  so  fat 
that  casual  acquaintances  commented  on  the  change  and, 
ironically  enough,  told  him  that  he  was  looking  better. 

Yolande  found  no  need  for  thinking  what  to  say  or  leave 
unsaid  at  her  next  meeting  with  Deryk,  as  he  made  no  ref- 


RECOIL  221 

erence  to  Idina.  They  met  by  chance  in  the  Park  one  after- 
noon and  sat  down  for  a  moment's  conversation  before 
returning  to  work.  Deryk  was  looking  appreciably  older 
than  at  their  last  meeting;  there  were  lines  at  the  corners 
of  his  eyes,  and  the  eyes  themselves,  deep  in  their  sockets, 
burned  with  feverish  restlessness,  Yolande  took  him  in 
hand  with  her  customary  decision  and  told  him  that  he 
was  killing  himself. 

"You  will  persist  in  thinking  that  I've  got  something  to 
live  for,"  he  answered  with  polite  boredom. 

"Are  you  trying  to  kill  yourself?" 

"My  dear  Yolande,  I  hardly  ever  try  to  do  anything  now- 
adays; it's  too  much  trouble,  and  one  nearly  always  fails. 
This  week  I  tried  to  break  myself  of  all  my  bad  habits  and 
I  can't  make  two  efforts  in  one  week." 

"Not  if  you  tried  the  first  seriously,"  she  answered. 

Deryk,  sitting  with  closed  eyes,  shrugged  his  shoulders 
lazily. 

"I  forget  whether  I  got  rid  of  the  habits  or  found  I  hadn't 
got  any,"  he  answered.  "The  result,  of  course,  is  the  same. 
By  the  way,  I've  finished  the  proofs  of  my  book,  and  it's 
coming  out  in  November." 

"You're  running  away,  Deryk.  We  were  discussing  your 
evil  mode  of  life  generally." 

"But  I  thought  I'd  disposed  of  that.  Anyway  it  required 
an  exhibition  of  iron  will  to  finish  that  book.  God !  I  was 
bored  before  I'd  done  with  it — and  that's  a  good  quality, 
one  of  my  best." 

He  smiled  unsatisfactorily  at  his  own  thoughts.  Half- 
heartedly he  had  slipped  into  an  alliance  with  Lucile  Wel- 
man,  recognising  that  there  was  no  love  to  gild  an  artificial 
passion;  he  had  been  half-heartedly  ashamed  of  himself 
from  the  first,  but  too  half-hearted  to  leave  her.  For  several 
weeks  they  had  lived  less  than  a  mile  apart  on  the  river, 
meeting  every  evening  before  dinner  and  dragging  out 
hours  of  commonplace  tenderness  which  had  all  been  used 
before.  Twice  Deryk  had  lost  patience  with  this  woman 
who  was  bound  to  him  by  nothing  but  ties  of  furtive  pas- 


222  MIDAS  AND  SON 

sion ;  he  had  threatened  to  close  the  bungalow  and  go  back  to 
town ;  twice  she  had  cried  and  told  him  that  he  was  breaking 
her  heart ;  and  to  stay  there  was  to  follow  the  line  of  least 
resistance.  .  .  .  Yesterday,  however,  ordinary  impatience 
became  merged  in  active  distaste  for  the  woman ;  he  was 
tired  of  her  and  disgusted  with  himself.  His  self-respect 
had  been  sacrificed  on  her  altar,  and,  as  he  could  not  win 
it  back,  she  was  welcome  to  it ;  but  he  would  sink  no  lower. 
Their  intimacy  was  at  an  end,  and  she  might  cry  her  eyes 
out  or,  better  still,  look  round  for  someone  else.  There 
would  be  successors,  as  there  had  been  predecessors.  He 
tormented  himself  by  comparing  his  conduct  of  a  year  ago 
with  his  conduct  of  to-day,  when  he  and  Lucile  dodged  be- 
hind an  island  to  escape  being  seen  by  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann, 
as  Lucile  and  Erckmann  had  no  doubt  dodged  to  avoid  Lord 
Pennington's  electric  launch  in  earlier  days.  He  had  got 
himself  into  proud,  clean  company! 

Jn  sudden  remorse  he  turned  to  his  companion. 

"I  say,  Yolande,  I  don't  think  we'd  better  meet,  you  know. 
In  the  old  days  I  was  a  cut  above  other  people  in  some 
things,  but  I've  come  down  hill  pretty  rapidly." 

The  remorse  made  her  almost  sorry  for  the  criticism 
which  had  evoked  it. 

"Dear  Deryk,  you  haven't  fallen  so  very  far,  whatever  I 
may  say  to  you.  At  least,  not  too  far  to  climb  up  again. 
If  you'd  take  yourself  in  hand " 


I 


It 


'Ah,  Yolande!  Why  won't  you  do  it  for  me?  If  I  prom- 
ised to  do  everything  you  told  me,  give  up  everything,  be- 
have as  if  you  were  my  confessor " 

"You'd  be  a  poor  sort  of  thing.  You  must  work  out  your 
own  salvation,  Deryk — to  use  one  of  your  father's  pet 
phrases — but  I'll  help  you  in  any  way  I  can." 

He  sat  lost  in  reflection  for  several  moments. 

"Deganway- asked  me  to  share  a  house  with  him,"  he  said 
with  apparent  irrelevance.  "I  refused,  because  I'm  too 
selfish  and  too  jumpy;  I  know  he'd  get  on  my  nerves,  with 
his  eyeglass  and  his  affectations.  I  Used  to  live  with  him, 
too,  at  one  time.  .  .  .  Old  Bertrand  Oakleigh  got  the  Presi- 


RECOIL  223 

dent  of  the  Board  of  Fine  Arts  to  offer  me  a  private  secre- 
taryship ;  I  turned  that  down,  because  I've  lost  the  habit  of 
work.  Such  work  as  I  do  is  poor  stuff,  and  I  don't  care 
enough  to  make  it  better.  Why  won't  you  marry  me,  Yo- 
lande,  and  turn  me  to  some  account?" 

She  answered  the  question  in  the  same  dispassionate 
tone  that  he  had  used. 

"Because  you  don't  love  me.  I  can't  marry  you  to — to 
rescue  you,  though  I  once  came  very  near  it.  I'm  glad  I 
saw  the  folly  of  it  in  time.  Dear  old  Deryk,  you'd  be  a 
pretty  fine  handful  at  any  time,  when  you  can't  share  a 
house  with  this  man,  can't  work  with  that  man,  too  selfish  or 
lazy  for  the  other — your  own  words,  my  dear ! — but,  if 
you  didn't  even  love  me — and  you  don't,  do  you?" 

"I— beHeve  I  do."  , 

She  laughed  and  laid  her  hand  on  his. 

"That  proves  you  don't !  I  sometimes  wonder  whether 
you  know  anything  about  love.  You  wanted  to  be  very 
kind  and  quixotic  about  Dina " 

Deryk  looked  away  quickly. 

"Let's  leave  her  out,"  he  suggested. 

"I'm  sorry.  Well,  you're  friends  with  me  and  you're 
attracted  by  this  woman  or  that,  but  I  don't  believe  yoi: 
know  the  real  thing." 

"Do  you?" 

Yolande  considered. 

"I  met  a  man  once  who  really  loved  me,  but  the  unfor- 
tunate thing  was  that  he  never  knew  it." 

"That  surely  didn't  keep  you  from  telling  him,"  Deryk 
laughed. 

"No,  I  didn't.  You  see,  I  didn't  want  to  disturb  him^ 
He  was  doing  very  good  public  w^ork,  and  a  wife  would 
simply  have  got  in  his  way.    There's  candour  for  you !" 

Deryk  looked  at  his  watch  and  rose  hastily  to  his  feet. 

"I  must  be  getting  back !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  still  keep  up 
this  pretence  of  work,  you  see.  Good-bye,  Yolande ;  you're 
sure  you  won't  marry  me?" 


224  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Not  just  now,"  she  answered.  "But  I'll  do  anything 
else  to  help  you." 

It  was  time  for  her,  too,  to  be  back  at  work,  but  the 
Park  was  very  seductive  in  the  late  summer  afternoon  light, 
and  she  sat  on  thinking  and  occasionally  smiling  at  her 
thoughts.  The  chair  by  her  side  was  occupied,  vacated 
and  occupied  again,  but  she  hardly  turned  her  head  until  a 
voice  said, 

"The  L-lion  Gate  was  easy  w-work  beside  this,  Miss 
Stornaway." 

"It's  the  man  himself !"  she  cried.  "Goodness !  How 
long  have  you  been  sitting  there  ?  And  the  clothes !  And 
that  hat !  Do  you  have  to  do  this  now  that  you're  a  pro- 
fessor?   I  was  thinking  of  you  when  you  spoke." 

Felix  Manisty  bowed  low  and  removed  his  hat  with  a 
flourish.  He  was  ornately  dressed  in  morning  coat  and 
black  and  white  check  trousers,  patent  leather  boots  and  a 
glossy  silk  hat;  lavender  gloves  and  a  gold-topped  cane  lay 
on  his  knees ;  only  his  face  and  hands  were  out  of  keeping 
with  his  general  elaboration,  and  they  were  burned  the 
colour  of  terra  cotta  from  exposure  to  the  sun. 

"I  always  thought  one  had  to  put  on  one's  b-best  clothes 
for  the  Park,"  he  explained  simply.  "Th-that  was  the 
theory,  when  I  was  an  undergraduate." 

"Not  in  October,  but  that's  beside  the  point,  and  I 
oughtn't  to  make  personal  remarks.  You're  looking  awfully 
well,  and  I'm  jolly  glad  to  see  you.  When  did  you  get 
back?" 

"M-Monday,"  he  answered.  "I  was  installed  yesterday. 
Did  you  get  my  letter?" 

Yolande  shook  her  head. 

"I  heard  of  you  in  Vienna  from  the  Dawsons  and  I  was 
thinking  of  you  this  afternoon,  but  I've  never  had  a  line 
since  you  went  out.  And  /  discovered  you :  don't  you  for- 
get that.     However,  I'm  not  complaining;  you  were  busy." 

The  silk  hat  was  grown  irksome  to  him,  and  he  placed  it 
with  obvious  relief  on  his  knees. 

"Yes,  I  was  hard  at  work,"  he  admitted.     "I've  found 


RECOIL  225 

the  site  of  the  1-Hbrary,  and  we  open  it  up  in  the  winter,  as 
soon  as  the  malaria  is  over.    If  I  g-go,  that  is," 

"///"  she  echoed. 

Manisty  drummed  a  reflective  tattoo  on  the  top  of  his  hat. 

"I'm  not  going  out  there  alone  again,"  he  said  firmly. 

"Well,  take  Deryk  Lancing.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you 
about  him." 

"L-later,"  Manisty  begged.  "I'm — not — g-going  out  there 
alone." 

Yolande  looked  at  him  with  surprised  amusement. 

"But  you've  done  it  a  dozen — twenty  times  before !"  she 
cried. 

"I  didn't  know  you  then,"  Manisty  explained. 

"It  must  be  the  clothes,"  said  Yolande  lightly,  though  she 
felt  herself  absurdly  bathed  in  sudden  warmth.  "You  never 
used  to  talk  like  this  in  the  dear  shabby  days.  Dr. — I  heg 
your  pardon ! — Professor  Manisty,  I  wonder  if  you  have 
any  conception  what  you  looked  like  that  day  on  the  Terrace 
when  you  undressed  in  full  sight  of  St.  Thomas'  Hospital." 

Manisty  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 

"We  s-seem  to  be  getting  away  from  the  p-point,"  he 
urged.  "Will  you  come  out  to  Hellenopolis  th-this  autumn  ?" 

"Alone?" 

"Yes." 

"My  dear  Professor,  I  can't." 

"B-but  you  don't  understand ;  I  want  you  to  marry  me. 
I  w-wish  you'd  had  that  letter  of  mine ;  I  put  it  quite  plainly 
there,  but  I  suppose  I  must  have  forgotten  to  p-post  it. 
You  know  the  w-worst,  of  course ;  I'm  over  forty  and  b-bald 
and  I  c-can't  tie  a  tie  and  I've  no  small  talk,  but  I'm  quite  a 
good  sort,  you  know ;  I  should  be  awfully  k-kind  to  you." 

Yolande's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears,  and  she  looked 
away. 

"You're  a  dear,"  she  whispered,  "but  I'm  not  going  to 
marry  you.  I'm  never  going  to  marry  anyone.  We'll  go 
on  being  great  friends " 

"But  that's  no  g-good!"  he  interrupted.     "If  you  stay 


226  MIDAS  AND  SON 

here,    I    obviously   can't   go   back   alone   to   that   ghasdy 
p-place." 
"Why  not? 

"  'That's  the  appropriate  country ;  there,  man's  thought. 

Rarer,  intenser, 
Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought. 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded   with  culture !  .  .  .'  " 

"G-go  on,"  said  Manisty,  bowing  his  appreciation  of 
grand  lines  rarely  delivered. 

"  'He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity; 
Left  play  for  work  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping ; 
"What's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "thou  keepest  furled? 

Show  me  their  shaping, 
Those  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage — 

Give !"     So  they  gowned  him.'  " 

Quickly,  unstammeringly  and  with  unaffected  wistfulness 
Manisty  capped  the  quotation : 

"  'Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too,  eyes  like  lead, 

Accents  uncertain ; 
"Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said. 

Up  with  the  curtain !' 

"Why  did  you  quote  those  1-lines,  Miss  Stornaway?" 

Yolande  turned  on  him  with  a  defiant  out-thrust  of  a 
determined  chin. 

"Because  you're  a  man,  and  Fate  made  me  a  girl,  and  I 
despise  a  man  who  loses  faith  in  his  work  or  him- 
self." 

"I've  not  l-lost  faith,"  Manisty  remonstrated.  "But  my 
w-work's  not  enough  in  itself.  L-look  here,  I'm  as  sane 
as  I  ever  was,  even  though  sane  men  don't  dig  up  buried 
c-cities ;  I  w-want  you  to  marry  me,  because  I'm  in  love 
with  you.  I'm  over  forty  and  I'm  not  g-going  to  waste 
any  more  of  my  1-life.     I'm  not  g-going "     He  broke 


RECOIL  227 

off  desperately.  "It's  no  g-good,  I  knew  I  c-couldn't  say 
it.    L-let  me  see  if  I  can't  find  that  l-letter !" 

Throughout  their  conversation  Yolande  had  walked  on 
a  knife-edge  between  laughter  and  tears.  She  leaned  across 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve. 

"I  don't  want  the  letter.  And  you  mustn't  talk  about 
this  again." 

"I  can't  g-go  out  there  without  you,"  he  repeated  ob- 
stinately. "I — the  whole  trouble  started  when  we  met; 
I  g-got  used  to  having  someone  to  tell  my  secrets  to,  but 
it  was  only  when  I  went  b-back — My  God !  I  did  miss  you. 
Child,  why  won't  you  marry  me?" 

Yolande  smiled  at  him  compassionately. 

"Suppose  I  said  I  didn't  love  you?"  she  suggested. 

Manisty  traced  a  pattern  in  the  gravel  with  the  end  of 
his  cane.  Then  he  replaced  his  hat  on  his  head  and  stood 
up. 

"Yes.    I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  he  said  gravely. 

"But  have  I  ever  said  or  done  anything ?"  she  began 

in  agony. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No.  I'd  quite  forgotten  about  that  s-side ;  I  was  think- 
ing only  of  myself.     I  must  s-seem  very  vain." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  looking  at  her  in  perplexity,  as 
though  uncertain  whether  her  refusal  meant  that  they 
were  never  to  meet  again,  anxious,  too,  to  grave  the  mem- 
ory' of  her  auburn  hair  and  grey  eyes  upon  his  mind. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  I  want  to  think.  You  don't  suppose 
you're  likely  to  g-get  to  love  me?"  he  enquired  diffidently. 

Yolande  had  to  lower  her  eyes  before  his. 

"It  isn't  that !"  she  said.  "I  should  be  in  your  way,  you'd 
get  slack " 

The  outstretched  hand  closed  on  her  wrist. 

"Are  you  re-reconsidering?"  he  demanded  excitedly.  "I 
don't  know,  you  see ;  I've  never  asked  anyone  to  marry  me 
before " 


228  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"My  dear!  you  needn't  tell  me  that!"  Yolande  inter- 
rupted with  a  little  sob. 


"There's  no  more  work  to  be  done  to-day,"  Yolande  told 
herself  when  the  time  came  for  her  to  say  good-bye  to 
Felix  Manisty.  She  was  a  little  sorry  to  find  her  brain 
and  nerves  in  any  way  excited  or  rebellious,  as  she  had 
decided  from  the  first  that,  unlike  other  people,  she  would 
behave  rationally  throughout  her  engagement.  In  a  spirit 
of  pure  reason  and  with  becoming  calm  of  manner,  she 
called  upon  her  uncle  in  his  big,  wind-swept  office  in 
Hampstead  and  mentioned  casually  that  she  had  a  piece  of 
news  to  give  him.  Raymond  looked  at  her,  kissed  her  and 
then  held  her  pressed  close  to  him  while  for  some  unac- 
countable reason  she  cried  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking. 

"I  can't  help  it,  uncle  dear,"  she  whispered  convulsively. 
"I  feel  so  happy;  and  I  seem  to  have  gone  all  limp." 

"Don't  try,  my  dear,"  he  advised  her.  "But  I  think 
you're  all  right  again  now,  and  I'm  going  to  make  a  magic 
with  some  cold  water  and  a  little  eau-de-cologne  for  bath- 
ing your  eyes.  Your  miserable  sex  always  faints  or  has 
a  headache,  so  I  keep  a  permanent  supply  of  brandy  and 
scent  in  the  office.  When  that's  done,  you  can  tell  me 
what  your  news  is :  you  haven't  so  far,  you  know." 

"I  think  you  can  guess,"  she  answered  with  a  smile. 
"And,  oh,  you  must  go  down  and  explain  to  father  that 
Felix  is  all  right;  he'll  never  believe  it  from  me,  I'm  al- 
ways so  unpopular  at  home.  Rub  in  the  professorship,  but 
don't  talk  about  archaeology  or  digging  or  Asia.  Dear 
father's  so  practical  at  times ;  he  might  want  to  know  what 
good  it  all  was.  Nov;  I  won't  waste  any  more  of  your 
time." 

She  tried  to  get  away,  but  the  uncle  persisted  in  standing, 
with  her  hands  in  his,  looking  at  her  pensively  and  a  little 
mournfully. 

"I  believe  you  really  are  going  to  be  happy,"  he  said  at 
length. 


II 


RECOIL  229 

"I  should  hope  I  am,"  she  answered. 

"Don't  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  It's  not  so  com- 
mon as  you  think  at  this  moment.  Some  don't  marry  at  all^ 
many  marry  the  wrong  people.  I  think  you're  all  right. 
Good-bye,  my  blessed  chick." 

Raymond  watched  her  walking  away  and  ran  his  fingers 
impatiently  through  his  hair.  He  could  not  understand  why 
he  was  appreciating  only  for  the  first  time  that  henceforth 
he  would  stand  second  in  his  niece's  affections. 

On  leaving  Hampstead,  Yolande  made  her  way  to  Eaton 
Square  and  paid  her  long-promised  call  on  the  Dawsons. 
The  hint  of  melancholy  in  Raymond's  voice,  her  own  sense 
of  welling  tenderness  towards  mankind,  the  caprice  of  an 
unexpectedly  idle  afternoon  contributed  to  her  decision. 
Imagining — for  some  insufficient  reason — that  she  would 
find  Idina  alone,  she  arrived  in  the  workaday  clothes  which 
she  had  put  on  that  morning;  she  was  conventional  enough 
to  feel  a  little  dismayed  when  she  discovered  the  drawing- 
room  full  of  visitors.  Idina  was  so  obviously  pleased  to 
see  her,  however,  that  she  forgot  her  momentary  embar- 
rassment and  settled  down  ungrudgingly  to  the  wholly  un- 
congenial task  of  rescuing  an  "at  home"  from  failure.  Idina, 
it  was  clear,  had  never  before  handled  a  similar  gathering 
and  stood  bewilderedly  penned  in  a  comer,  while  an  el- 
derly aunt  of  her  husband  emitted  family  history.  The 
other  guests  remained  aloof  and  unwelded,  and  Sidney's 
utility  was  exhausted  when  he  had  strutted  up  with  an  air 
of  proprietorship,  introducing  one  guest  after  another  to 
his  wife,  and  had  subsequently  repeated  to  every  man  in  the 
room, 

"Give  you  a  whisky  and  soda  downstairs,  if  you  don't 
care  about  tea.  Can't  stand  it  myself,  but  then  I've  no 
inside.  I  say,  old  man,  it's  awfully  good  of  you  to  come 
to  a  gloomy  gathering  like  this ;  one's  womenkind  seem  to 
like  it,  and  there's  an  end  to  the  matter.  It's  a  long  time 
since  I  saw  anything  of  you :  we  really  lost  touch  when 
you  married  and  left  London." 

After  her  second  hearing  of  this  speech  Yolande  found 


230  MIDAS  AND  SON 

her  bearings  in  the  stiff,  formal  gathering  that  harmonised 
so  exquisitely  with  the  massive  mid-Victorian  furniture 
and  decoration  of  the  room.  Sidney  had  exhumed  the 
sobered  friends  of  his  reckless  youth,  and  they  were  come 
with  their  wives  to  witness  unregenerate  Sidney's  belated 
conversion,  to  see,  too,  how  he  had  fared  in  the  great 
gamble.  The  wives  were  middle-aged,  heavy  and  settled ; 
one  or  two  allowed  a  hint  of  disapproval  and  jealousy  to 
be  seen ;  the  rest,  when  she  had  escaped  from  the  elderly 
aunt,  advised  Idina  gravely  on  life  in  general  and  in  par- 
ticular the  care  of  a  household,  talking  through  her  and 
over  her  head,  calling  for  confirmation,  confiding  experi- 
ences and  comparing  notes.  Sittmg  or  standing  surrounded 
by  them,  slender,  fair  haired  and  warmly  flushed,  Idina 
with  her  startled  eyes  looked  like  a  strayed  wood-nymph 
made  prisoner  by  a  gathering  of  philosophers  who  were 
not  prepared  to  believe  in  wood-nymphs. 

Yolande  ruthlessly  broke  her  way  into  the  ring  and  scat- 
tered the  party  into  a  dozen  groups  of  two  or  three.  Glid- 
ing from  one  to  another  she  galvanised  them  into  a  dozen 
different  affectations  of  interest,  breaking  up  and  re-sort- 
ing the  groups,  like  a  ballet  master,  until  she  had  arrived 
at  temperamental  harmony. 

"My  dear,  I  had  three  years  of  it  with  Mother's  parties 
before  I  ran  away,"  she  explained  to  Idina,  when  they 
were  alone  for  a  moment.  "You'll  find  it  quite  easy,  if 
you're  sufficiently  brutal ;  dragoon  your  people,  and  you 
can  make  them  think  they've  enjoyed  them'^elves,  but  don't 
go  in  simply  for  being  charming,  or  your  party  gets  out  of 
control.     For  one  thing,  you  can't  get  rid  of  it." 

Idina  smiled  with  tired  gratitude. 

"Thank  you  for  coming,  Miss  Stornaway,"  she  said.  "I 
wasn't  enjoying  it  very  much  before." 

"Why  don't  you  call  me  'Yolande'?  Everybody  does, 
you  know.  I  want  to  be  friends  and  I  shall  be  coming  to 
you  for  all  sorts  of  advice  soon.  You  may  not  believe  it, 
but  I'm  going  to  be  married." 


RECOIL  231 

"Oh,  who  to?"  Idina  cried  excitedly;  and  then  with  a 
change  of  tone,  "Not  Deryk?" 

Yolande  shook  her  head  unsmiHngly. 

"Not  Deryk,"  she  said.  "Dr.  Manisty,  the  excavator. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  met  him  at  Ripley  Court  in  the 
winter.  You  mustn't  tell  anyone  yet,  because  it's  only  just 
been  arranged  and  I  haven't  told  even  my  father  yet.  Wish 
me  luck,  Dina." 

"I  wish  you  all  possible  happiness,"  said  Idina  almost 
inaudibly.  "Do  you  think  you  can  bring  him  to  dine  here? 
I  should  like  to  meet  him." 

"I'll  make  him!"  Yolande  laughed.  "And  that  reminds 
me 

"Is  he  very  much  in  love  with  you?"  Idina  interrupted, 
pursuing  her  own  line  of  thought. 

"I  hope  so." 

Idina  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"And  are  you  as  much  in  love  with  him?"  she  asked  at 
length. 

"Of  course  I  am !  I  shouldn't  be  marrying  him  other- 
wise. But  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  myself  any  more,  be- 
cause I've  got  to  go.  Will  you  choose  some  day  to  come 
and  dine  with  Uncle  Raymond?  He  wants  you  both  to 
come,  but  I  always  look  after  his  invitations,  so  I'm  asking 
you.  And  then  will  you  both  come  and  eat  the  most  prim- 
itive meal  imaginable  in  my  flat?  And,  one  thing  more, 
are  you  going  to  dances  at  all?  I  want  you  to  come  with 
my  party  to  the  Albert  Hall  in  the  first  week  of  November ; 
it's  fancy  dress,  and  uncle  Raymond's  getting  it  up  for 
one  of  his  million  charities.     It  ought  to  be  rather  fun." 

Slowly  Idina's  head  turned  towards  her  husband. 

"It  really  depends  on  Sidney,"  she  said  uncertainly.  "He's 
not  been  at  all  well  lately." 

Yolande  knew  enough  of  Sidney's  h3^ochondria  to  be 
sceptical. 

"He's  looking  very  well,"  she  objected.  "And  he's  sure- 
ly much  stouter  than  he  used  to  be ;  he  does  you  credit." 

Idina  did  not  wince,  but  her  eyelids  flickered. 


232  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"The  doctors  are  rather  worried  about  him,"  was  all 
that  she  would  say.  "But  I  should  love  to  come,  if  he'll  let 
me.     Ma)'  I  tell  you  in  a  day  or  two?" 

Yolande  nodded  and  kissed  her  good-bye.  As  she  went 
away,  a  feeling  of  exhaustion  and  depression  bore  her 
down,  as  though  she  had  spent  the  afternoon  manufactur- 
ing bright  conversation  for  an  invalid.  Idina  herself,  with 
her  deathly  listlessness,  was  sufficiently  pitiful,  but  the 
setting  of  middle-aged  friends,  the  lifeless  conversation, 
the  pantaloon  quips  of  Sidney  heightened  the  gloom  and 
offended  against  her  first  romantic  canons.  A  young  bride 
should  come  home — with  a  young  husband — to  a  new  house 
still  pleasantly  redolent  of  paint  and  decorated  with  the 
curtains  and  cushions  that  the  two  of  them  had  spent  de- 
lightful weeks  in  choosing;  and  there  should  be  impossible 
wedding-presents  everywhere,  and  the  friends  of  both 
should  be  making  them  dine  out  every  evening.  "I  worked 
off  three  invitations,"  she  interjected  to  herself,  "and  I'm 
fairly  sure  that  they're  the  only  three  the  wretched  child's 
had."  And  they  ought  to  have  been  too  poor  to  furnish  the 
whole  house  at  once,  and  there  should  have  been  hours  of 
happy  contrivance,  and  the  first  year  should  have  been  a 
glorious  and  rather  uncomfortable  adventure,  so  that  they 
could  look  back  their  lives  through  and  reconstruct  all  with 
a  "Do  you  remember —  ?"  to  start  them — exactly  as  she  and 
darling  Felix  were  going  to  do.  .  .  .  For  completeness  and 
unswer\ang  finality  a  Victorian  undertaker  might  have  pre- 
pared the  house  in  Eaton  Square. 

Yolande  sighed,  looked  at  her  watch  and  walked  towards 
Deryk's  new  rooms  in  Bury  Street.  When  he  gave  up  saving 
money,  he  had  moved  into  a  comfortable  bachelor  suite 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  his  club,  with  a  piano,  a  telephone 
and  a  shamefacedly  discreet  landlord,  who  valeted  him. 
She  screwed  up  her  courage  on  the  way  there  to  the  dis- 
agreeable task  of  bearing  him  the  tidings  of  her  engage- 
ment ;  believing  that  she  knew  all  that  was  to  be  known  of 
Deryk;  she  was  satisfied  that  he  did  not  really  want  to 


RECOIL  233 

marry  her,  but  that  he  would  be,  temporarily  at  least,  infu- 
riated by  the  idea  of  her  marrying  anyone  else. 

He  was  sitting  at  the  piano  with  his  head  thrown  back 
and  his  eyes  half  closed,  when  she  came  in.  The  rustle  of 
her  dress,  more  than  her  warning  tap  on  the  door,  made 
him  turn,  and  he  welcomed  her  with  a  surprised  smile. 

"I  never  expected  to  see  youl'  he  said.  "What  do  you 
think  of  the  rooms?     This  is  your  first  visit,  of  course." 

The  room  in  question  was  small  and  rather  overcrowded 
with  a  sofa,  table,  two  large  armchairs  and  a  small-sized 
grand  piano ;  it  was  comfortable,  at  the  same  time,  and,  as 
Deryk  explained  proudly,  a  man  could  reach  almost  any- 
thing without  getting  up.  A  second  sitting-room  opened 
out  of  the  first,  and  on  the  far  side  was  Deryk's  bedroom. 

"I  like  them,"  she  said.  "And  it  must  be  so  useful  to 
have  two  doors  to  every  room  and  all  the  rooms  opening 
out  of  each  other.  There's  really  no  excuse  for  being 
caught  by  people  you  don't  want  to  see — unless,  of  course, 
you  give  yourself  away  by  playing  the  piano.  The  furni- 
ture I  hate  quite  a  lot ;  I  suppose  that's  your  landlord's." 

"Yes,  I  couldn't  afford  to  refurnish.  At  least,  I  could, 
but  it  would  have  meant  too  much  extra  work." 

Yolande  nodded  and  continued  her  inspection  of  the 
room,  glancing  with  disfavour  at  the  conventional  pictures 
of  girls  in  deshabille  smoking  cigarettes  or  dozing  in  front 
of  unnaturally  red  fires.  At  another  time  Deryk  would  not 
have  consented  to  live  a  single  day  with  such  tawdry  sug- 
gestiveness  smirking  at  him  from  the  walls,  but  he  had  evi- 
dently decided  that  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  change  the 
furniture  or  vary  the  decoration.  In  no  other  way  than  by 
the  betrayal  of  a  new-born  lethargy  and  indifference  had  he 
succeeding  in  impressing  his  personality  upon  his  sur- 
roundings. 

"Seeing  how  little  work  you're  doing  now,  I  wish  you'd 
try  to  turn  out  better  stuff,"  she  said,  coming  to  a  stand- 
still in  front  of  the  bookcase  and  running  her  eye  over  the 
titles.  "I  shouldn't  think  you're  exactly  proud  of  some  of 
your  recent  articles." 


234  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Deryk  assumed  a  disdainful  defensive. 

"I  get  paid  the  same  whether  they're  good  or  bad,  so 
why  waste  decent  work?" 

"But,  if  you  write  too  much  bad  stuff,  you'll  destroy  your 
own  market,  my  friend.  I  suppose  you  can  now  place  your 
stuff  without  any  difficulty,  as  much  as  you  can  put  on  the 
market.  You  won't  always  be  able  to,  if  you  go  on  getting 
consistently  more  slipshod.  And,  of  course,  it's  fright- 
fully demoralising  to  turn  out  admittedly  tenth-rate  work." 

"I  feel  too  much  contempt  for  the  whole  work  to  take 
it  seriously,"  Deryk  answered  lazily.  "And  I  don't  think 
I  mind  being  demoralised." 

"I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  take  you  in  hand  and  make 
something  of  you,"  she  reminded  him  reproachfully. 

"Yes,  and  you  turned  me  down."  He  played  softly,  more 
to  himself  and  his  mood  than  with  any  idea  that  she  was 
listening.  " Yolande,  I've  got  over  my  old  smash-up ;  I  don't 
talk  about  it  and  I  don't  think  about  it  more  than  I  need, 
but  I've  put  it  in  its  place.  I'm  in  a  decent  frame  of  mind 
for  once  and  I'll  do  almost  anything  you  tell  me — except 
go  to  Ripley  Court,  of  course.  I  wish  to  God  you'd  find  me 
something  to  do  and  make  me  do  it !  It's  so  frightfully  easy 
to  make  just  enough  money  to  keep  going,  and  I  can't  and 
won't  work  without  an  object.  I  wish  you'd  marry  me. 
That's  the  second  time  I've  proposed  to  you  to-day." 

Yolande  crossed  the  room  and  knelt  on  the  sofa,  resting 
her  arms  on  the  piano. 

"I  can't,  Deryk." 

"But  why  not?"  he  drawled,  with  a  guarded,  half-serious 
smile. 

"Because — "  She  paused  undecided.  "I  say,  Deryk, 
we've  always  been  good  friends,  haven't  we?  Well,  I  want 
you  to  be  one  of  the  first  to  know,  because  we've  always 
been  friends.  I'm — I've  just  got  engaged  to  be  married, 
Deryk." 

His  right  hand  crashed  on  to  the  keys,  and  he  jumped  to 
his  feet. 

"Engaged?" 


RECOIL  235 

She  nodded. 

"To  Felix  Manisty.  Deryk  dear,  don't  look  so  surprised ; 
it  isn't  flattering." 

For  a  moment  he  seemed  not  to  have  heard  her.  Then 
he  forced  a  wintry  smile  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Manisty's  a  good  fellow,"  he  said.  "And  a  jolly  lucky 
fellow.     I  hope  you're  going  to  be  very  happy." 

He  disengaged  his  hand  as  quickly  as  he  could  and 
walked  to  the  window.  Yolande  gave  him  a  moment  to 
himself  and  then  crept  behind  and  slipped  her  arm  through 
his. 

"It  isn't  going  to  make  any  difference  to  us,"  she  whis- 
pered.   "We  shall  be  just  as  good  friends " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  can't  help  it,"  he  said  shortly.  "I  shall  miss  you, 
Yolande." 

"But  you'll  see  as  much  of  me  as  you  ever  have  or  ever 
want  to !"  she  cried, 

"  'Tain't  the  same  thing.  I  shall  always  be  second.  I 
wonder  if  you  know  the  sort  of  thing  you've  meant  to  me?" 
he  went  on  slowly.  "You've  got  the  cleanest  soul  of  anyone 
I  know ;  I'd  as  soon  think  of  trying  to  kiss  you  as  I  would 
of  trying  to  put  a  knife  into  your  ribs ;  and  sometimes — 
God  knows  I  haven't  run  straight — but  sometimes  I've  at 
least  had  the  decency  to  feel  what  a  swine  you'd  think  me, 
if  you  knew  anything  about  it.  I  put  you  on  a  kind  of  pedes- 
tal in  my  mind  .  .  .  Remember  I  told  you  this  afternoon 
that  you'd  better  drop  me."  He  sighed  and  began  walking 
up  and  down  the  room.  "Oh,  well !  Can't  be  helped  !  I  say 
again,  I  hope  you'll  both  be  very  happy.  Thank  Heaven 
you're  marrying  because  you  want  to." 

Yolande  looked  at  the  clock  and  began  to  draw  on  her 
gloves. 

"I  shan't  be  happy  if  you're  going  to  let  it  make  any 
difference  to  our  friendship,"  she  said;  and  then  with  a 
transparent  assumption  of  gaiety,  "I  shall  tease  you  and 
abuse  you  as  I've  always  done.  And  you'll  come  to  me — 
at  least  I  shall  be  frightfully  offended,  if  you  don't — when- 


236  MIDAS  AND  SON 

ever  you're  in  difficulties.  No,  don't  be  impatient,  Deryk. 
I  know  much  more  about  you  than  perhaps  you  think.  I 
know  how  hard  it  must  be  to  hve  with  anyone  as  strong- 
willed  as  your  father ;  I  know  how  awful  it  must  be  to  have 
millions  and  millions  of  pounds  just  waiting  for  you  so  that 
there's  no  particular  reason  for  doing  anything;  I  know 
a  bit  about  the  smash-up.  You  haven't  had  an  easy  time, 
old  man,  but  there's  still  a  great  deal  of  work  waiting  to 
be  done  in  the  world." 

He  walked  reflectively  to  and  fro  with  his  hands  locked 
behind  his  back;  Yolande  touched  him  on  the  shoulder 
with  her  finger-tips  and  slipped  noiselessly  out  of  the  room. 
Turning  to  the  window,  he  was  waiting  to  see  her  come 
out  into  the  street,  when  the  door  opened  and  his  land- 
lord advanced,  with  the  air  of  a  conspirator,  two  steps 
into  the  room. 

"A  lady  has  called  to  see  you,  sir,"  he  announced  con- 
fidentially. "I  said  you  were  engaged,  sir,  and  she's  wait- 
ing in  the  dining  room." 

"I  can't  see  her,  I'm  busy,"  Deryk  answered. 

"I  said  you  were  oia,  sir,  but  she  said  she'd  wait  till 
you  came  in,  as  it  was  verj'  important." 

After  a  moment's  indecision  Deryk  sighed  impatiently. 

"Oh,  shew  her  in!"  he  exclaimed.  "Come  back  in  five 
minutes  and  say  that  you  were  to  remind  me  that  I'm 
dining  at  eight." 

The  landlord  withdrew,  to  reappear  and  usher  Mrs. 
Welman  into  the  room. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  disturbing  you,  Mr.  Lancing,"  she  be- 
gan ;  and  then,  when  the  door  had  closed,  "Oh,  Deryk,  don't 
be  angry  with  me !    I  couldn't,  couldn't  keep  away." 

Deryk  ostentatiously  looked  at  his  watch. 

"I've  got  to  dress  in  about  two  minutes,"  he  told  her. 
"You  said  there  was  something  important."  A  gleam  of 
white  shewed  him  that  she  was  biting  her  lip,  and  the 
sight  angered  him.  "I  told  you  yesterday  that  I'd  got  work 
to  do." 


RECOIL  237 

She  came  up  to  him  and  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
looking  beseechingly  into  his  eyes. 

"Please,  Deryk!" 

"Something  important,"  he  reminded  her. 

"You're  not,  not  going  to  send  me  away  ?" 

"I've  come  back  to  London  to  work;  and  I  can't  work 
if  we're  always  meeting  and  writing  and  ringing  each 
other  up." 

She  withdrew  her  hands  and  looked  down. 

"I'm  sorry — if  I've — wasted  your  time,"  she  said.  "I  had 
better  say  good-bye.  Try  not  to  despise  me  too,  too 
much,  Deryk." 

The  note  of  humility  rallied  him  to  a  certain  bluff  kindli- 
ness. 

"I  don't  despise  you,  Lucile." 

"You're  sorry  you  ever  met  me." 

"We  should  both  be  happier  if  we  hadn't,"  he  suggested 
vmeasily. 

She  nodded  wistfully. 

"You  despise  yourself  for  ever,  ever  caring  for  me ;  and 
^rou  despise  me  for  falling  in  love  with  you  and  forgetting 
■ — oh,  it  doesn't  help  to  talk  about  it.  Try  to  think  kindly 
of  me,  Deryk." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  landlord  delivered 
his  pre-arranged  message.  Der}'k  thanked  him  and  com- 
pared his  watch  with  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"I  shall  always  think  kindly  of  you,"  he  answered. 

"Ah,  you  saw  that !    But  you're  tired  of  me " 

"I  only  said  that  I'd  got  work  to  do  and  that  I  couldn't 
do  it  at  Maidenhead." 

"And,  when  you've  done  the  work,  are  you  going  to 
let  me  see  you  again?" 

Deryk  hesitated  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Better  not,"  he  counselled  her. 

"Very  well."  She  turned  to  the  door,  but  came  back 
at  the  last  moment  and  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck. 
"Oh,  my  darling,  you  don't  really  mean  it !  You're  not 
going  to  turn  me  away!     You  can't,  Deryk,  you  mustn't! 


238  MIDAS  AND  SON 

You  don't  know  what  you  are  to  me.  Say  you'll  let  me  see 
you  again."  She  pressed  her  lips  to  his  ear.  "Say  you 
will,  sweetheart,  say  you  will !" 

As  once  before,  Deryk  seemed  to  look  down  on  himself 
from  outside  and  direct  the  movements  of  a  puppet  in  his 
own  image.  He  was  entirely  self-controlled  and  bored,  yet 
interested. 

"We  shall  both  regret  it,"  he  whispered  with  patient 
reasonableness.     "It's  bound  to  come  to  an  end." 

"But  not  yet !" 

He  tried  to  liberate  himself  from  her  arms. 

"Why  not  face  the  position?"  he  cried  with  a  note  of 
resignation,  almost  of  despair. 

"Because  I  can't  bear  it,  darling.  Say  you'll  let  me 
come  and  see  you  just  once.    I  don't  ask  more  than  once." 

"It  won't  stop  at  once,"  he  answered,  caressing  her  cheek 
with  one  hand.     "Why  won't  you  be  sensible,  Lucile?" 

"I  don't  want  to  be !     I  love  you,  I  love  you." 

Deryk  sighed  helplessly  and  bent  down  to  let  her  kiss 
him. 


CHAPTER  V 


RECOVERY 

"  'Make-believe.  Make-believe.'  The  phrase  .  .  .  haunted  me  as 
I  walked  homeward  alone.  I  went  to  my  room  and  stood  before 
my  desk  and  surveyed  papers  and  files  and  Margaret's  admirable 
equipment  of  me. 

"I  perceived  .  .  .  that  so  it  was  Mr.  George  Alexander  would  have 
mounted  a  statesman's  private  room.  .  .  ." 

H.  G.  Wells:  The  New   Machiavelli. 


In  the  first  week  of  November  Raymond  Stornaway's 
costume  ball,  advertised  in  every  paper  and  on  every  hoard- 
ing, took  place  at  the  Albert  Hall.  He  and  his  staff  had 
worked  indefatigably  for  months,  and  in  the  last  week  or 
two  before  the  ball  his  whole  time  was  given  up  to  it,  and 
his  friends  lost  sight  of  him  even  at  meals.  His  only  holi- 
day was  when  he  motored  Yolande  down  to  her  father's 
house  and  remained  conveniently  near  in  case  Lord  Storn- 
away (or  anyone  else)  shewed  any  tendency  to  make  a 
fool  of  himself,  when  the  engagement  was  announced. 
This  duty  discharged,  he  handed  out  a  manual  of  good 
advice  on  houses  and  flats,  furniture  and  decoration,  warned 
Yolande  to  expect  no  practical  assistance  from  her  husband, 
and  closed  the  interview  with  a  cheque  which  caused  her 
to  protest  with  a  gasp  that  she  was  marrying  only  one  hus- 
band and  furnishing  only  one  house. 

"Beloved  uncle,  I  think  we  invite  Deryk,  don't  we?"  she 
asked,  when  the  arrangements  for  Raymond's  own  party 
were  under  discussion.  "We  haven't  seen  him  for  weeks, 
and  our  attitude  towards  him  is  rather  'See  what  baby  is 
doing  and  tell  him  not  to.'  We  particularly  want  him  to 
be  friends  with  Felix." 

239 


240  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"You  invited  the  Dawsons  for  that  night,"  Raymond  re- 
minded her. 

"But  they  can't  come,  or  I  wouldn't  have  suggested 
Deryk.  Dina's  keeping  the  tickets  and  says  she  may  look 
in  for  five  minutes  to  see  the  dresses;  she  can't  leave  her 
husband  for  more  than  that.  He's  been  in  bed  for  weeks 
and  seems  to  be  very  bad.  So  it's  quite  safe  to  invite 
Deryk;  and,  if  they  meet  at  the  Albert  Hall,  well,  they'll 
just  have  to,  and  it  won't  be  our  fault." 

Raymond  wrinkled  his  forehead  pensively. 

"I'm  not  much  of  a  success  with  that  boy,"  he  had  to 
admit.  "When  last  I  heard  from  Ripley  Court,  he  hadn't 
been  near  the  place.  It's  quite  ridiculous ;  he's  making  a 
fool  of  himself.  There's  not  the  slightest  reason  why  he 
shouldn't  go  down  occasionally,  especially  as  it's  unlikely 
that  his  father  will  live  through  the  winter.  And  I  don't 
like  the  abominable  people  he  goes  about  with.  Yes,  invite 
him,  and  I'll  talk  cold  sense." 

On  that  promise  Yolande  issued  an  invitation  and  had  it 
refused.  She  sent  a  second  and  reinforced  it  with  a  per- 
sonal call. 

"You've  got  to  come,  Deryk,  so  why  make  a  fuss?  I'm 
not  going  to  let  you  quarrel  with  me,  and  uncle  Raymond 
particularly  wishes  to  tell  you  not  to  make  a  fool  of  your- 
self. And  Felix  wants  you  to  come  out  with  us  after 
Christmas." 

Deryk  smiled  lazily  and  with  dwindling  resistance. 

"I  won't  go  abroad,"  he  said,  "but,  as  I  can't  stop  your 
uncle  calling  me  names " 

"You  richly  deserve  them,  Deryk." 

"Admitted.  Well,  I  am  engaged  for  dinner  that  night, 
but  I'll  chuck  it,  if  you  like.  You  understand  I  don't  want 
to  come  a  bit?" 

"You  have  made  that  quite  clear,"  she  answered  with 
good-humour.    "We  shan't  stay  more  than  an  hour  or  two." 

On  the  evening  of  the  ball  Raymond  in  lilac  coat,  white 
knee-breeches,  wig  and  sword  welcomed  his  guests  and 
tried  to  identify  their  costumes  without  committing  himself 


RECOVERY  241 

finally  to  an  irrevocable  blunder.  Yolande  with  bare  arms,  a 
winged  helmet  and  two  long  plaits  of  hair  was  an  unmistak- 
able Brunhilde,  but  Felix's  sandals,  brown  robe,  tonsured 
wig  and  gold-wire  halo  exposed  him  to  endless  controversy, 

"N-not  Francis  of  Assisi,"  he  explained  patiently, 
"P-Pancras.  Saint  and  m-martyr.  He's  not  in  the  Calen- 
dar, but  the  b-books  say  he  was  a  y-youth  of  great  beauty, 
who  at  the  age  of  sixteen " 

"Heavens!  Who's  this?"  Yolande  interrupted,  clutching 
at  his  arm,  as  a  tall  figure  stalked  into  the  drawing-room, 
A  loose-fitting  robe  draped  him  from  neck  to  feet,  and  his 
head  was  hidden  by  a  conical  bag  with  ghostly  eye-holes. 

"Good  evening,  Mr,  Stornaway,"  said  an  affectedly  deep 
voice. 

"Good  evening.  I  haven't  the  least  idea  who  you  are," 
Raymond  answered. 

There  was  a  ghostly  laugh,  and  one  muffled  hand  twitched 
the  bag  away. 

"Deryk!"  Yolande  cried.  "What  are  you?  An  In- 
quisitor?    I  should  never  have  known  who  it  was." 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  two  mutually 
jealous  Columbines,  Gerald  Deganway  as  a  half -naked 
retiarius — still,  to  Deryk's  disgust,  with  hair  ornately 
brushed  back  and  eyeglass  in  play — and  George  Oakleigh  in 
dress  clothes  with  a  coloured  cloak  fastened,  in  compro- 
mise, round  his  neck  and  tucked  as  far  as  possible  out  of 
sight  down  his  back.  While  Yolande  flitted  to  and  fro,  in- 
troducing the  new-comers  and  checking  their  arrival  by 
her  list,  Raymond  drew  Deryk  into  a  corner  and  asked  for 
news  of  Sir  Aylmer. 

"I  think  you'll  regret  it,  if  you  don't  go  down  to  Ripley 
pretty  soon,"  he  said  without  further  skirmishing,  when  the 
expected  answer  had  been  given.  "I  told  you  so  one  day 
when  you  lunched  with  me  in  the  summer." 

"And  I  told  you  that  I  thought  the  first  move  ought  to 
come  from  him,"  Deryk  answered  obstinately.  "He  and 
Hats  mustn't  think  they  can  dangle  me  at  the  end  of  a 
string " 


242  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Will  you  go,  if  he  asks  you  to?"  Raymond  interrupted. 
"Mind,  I  think  he  behaved  like  a  fool,  but,  if  you  don't  go, 
I  foretell  that  you'll  feel  yoit  behaved  like  a  fool,  too. 
And  that  is  so  damnably  uncomfortable  for  one's  pride. 
Will  you  go?" 

Deryk  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  scenting  an  intrigue. 

"It  depends  how  he  asks  me,"  was  all  that  he  would 
promise. 

"Well,  that's  something,"  Raymond  sighed.  *'I  saw 
him  last  week  and  I  doubt  if  he'll  live  through  the  winter. 
Doesn't  feel  equal  to  going  out  this  filthy  weather  and, 
equally,  doesn't  seem  able  to  live  without  air."  He  stopped 
to  look  closely  at  Deryk,  but  there  was  a  supercilious, 
Roman-like  expression  on  the  boy's  face.  "Not  the  only 
death  this  winter  that  %ve've  got  to  expect,"  he  added  with 
a  sigh,  wrinkling  his  forehead  and  staring  fixedly  at  the  fire. 

"Oh  ?" 

Raymond  looked  cautiously  over  one  shoulder. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "and  it 
certainly  mustn't  go  any  further.  Sidney  Dawson's  in  a 
very  bad  way.  He  and  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  each  other 
as  boys,  when  we  were  living  at  your  place,  and  he  made 
me  his  executor  some  years  ago.  I  called  on  him  a  day  or 
two  ago ;  and  I  didn't  like  the  look  of  things  a  bit." 

"But  he  always  looked  rather  tough !"  Deryk  exclaimed. 

Raymond  shook  his  head. 

"There's  a  weak  strain  in  the  family.  Tendency  to  dropsy, 
you  know.  Three  weeks  ago  his  arms  and  legs  were  like 
bolsters." 

Deryk  was  unaffectedly  shocked. 

"But — does  his  wife  know?"  he  asked. 

"Can't  help  it,  poor  soul.  Of  course  I've  no  idea  how 
much  she  knows,  but  yesterday  or  the  day  before  he  was 
simply  living  in  a  bag  of  water.  His  eyesight  was  failing, 
too.  I  need  hardly  say  he's  frightened  to  death,  but  I  don't 
think  even  he  knows  how  bad  he  is.  They  were  talking 
about  trying  a  specialist  in  Naples  whom  I  mentioned  to 
them.    In  any  event "    He  left  the  sentence  unfinished 


RECOVERY  243 

and  shrugged  his  shoulders  helplessly.  The  sight  and 
memory  of  Dawson's  affliction  weighed  upon  him  until  he 
was  glad  to  share  the  burden  with  anyone.  A  moment 
later  dinner  was  announced,  and  Deryk  walked  in,  reflect- 
ing in  a  mood  of  detached  bitterness  that  this  was  the  kind 
of  price  that  people  had  to  pay;  when  the  artificial  bitter- 
ness passed,  he  indignantly  demanded  of  himself  by  what 
right  dying  men  were  allowed  to  marry.  Then,  with  an 
effort,  he  dismissed  the  discussion  and  its  consequences 
from  his  mind.  As  he  had  told  Yolande  several  weeks 
ago  after  their  conversation  in  the  park,  he  had  recovered 
his  sense  of  perspective;  he  could,  if  need  be,  think  and 
speak  of  Idina  dispassionately. 

The  ball  was  well  begun,  when  they  arrived  and  fitted 
themselves  into  Raymond's  box  on  the  first  tier,  and  they 
had  an  unhurried  hour  in  which  to  dance  or  walk  idly 
round  the  great  hall  before  their  host  completed  his  tour 
of  inspection  and  returned  to  collect  them  for  the  supper 
that  was  already  laid  at  the  back  of  the  box.  From  the  far 
end  the  music  even  of  a  double  band  sounded  muffled  and 
distant ;  the  crowded  floor  seemed  covered  with  surging 
waves  of  colour,  mingling,  separating  and  becoming  lost 
like  tidal  currents.  Time  and  space  grew  confused  and 
remote,  until  Yolande,  strolling  arm-in-arm  with  Deryk, 
wondered  whether  she  was  awake ;  her  individuality  was  in 
danger  of  being  swallowed  by  proximity  to  three  thousand 
slowly-moving,  fantastically-dressed  bodies.  When  they 
danced,  she  found  herself  dancing;  when  the  distant  music 
quickened  and  died  away,  she  found  herself  being  carried 
with  the  stream  through  one  of  the  doors  or  swept  into 
the  procession  that  sauntered  circuitously,  with  happy  in- 
quisitiveness  staring  into  the  lower  boxes,  recognising  and 
accosting  friends  and  criticising  costumes.  Or,  if  the  dance 
ended  when  she  was  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  her  neigh- 
bours dropped  down  unconcernedly  and  sat  cross-legged  on 
the  floor  until  the  music  started  again.  A  drone  of  chatter- 
ing voices  hummed  an  unceasing,  drowsy  chant  only  punc- 
tuated by  momentary  silence  as  a  flash-Hght  blazed  and  an 


244  MIDAS  AND  SON 

acrid  scent  of  burnt  magnesium  lingered  for  an  instant  in 
a  scattering  cloud  of  silver  dust.  From  the  upper  boxes 
coloured  paper  streamers  were  being  thrown  out  and 
caught,  until  the  box  fronts  were  covered  with  a  flimsy, 
swaying  trellis-work. 

"I'm  glad  you  made  me  come,  Yolande,"  said  Deryk,' 
"even  if  I  did  have  to  cut  one  of  my  best  friends.  It's  a 
wonderful  sight." 

"That's  only  one  thing,"  she  answered.  "Are  you  com- 
ing abroad  with  us  ?  I  know  you  like  Felix,  because  you've 
told  me  so  four  times  already  this  evening — my  dear,  I  don't 
mind,  you  can  go  on  as  long  as  you  like — and,  if  you  won't 
come,  I  shall  know  we  aren't  friends." 

The  music  stopped,  and  they  stood  clapping  for  an  en- 
core. 

"Why  am  I  so  popular  all  at  once?"  asked  Deryk. 

"You're  not,  but  you're  doing  no  good  here,  and  I  can 
turn  you  to  useful  account  at  Hellenopolis.  I  don't  insist 
on  an  answer  now,  but  I  want  you  to  think  about  the  idea. 
Hullo !  there's  the  great  Sonia  Dainton  going  out.  She's 
very  beautiful,  and  it's  a  lovely  dress,  what  there  is  of 
it,  but  I  don't  like  her  friends.  However,  I  don't  suppose 
she  likes  mine." 

The  encore  was  refused  and  they  dropped  once  again 
into  the  circling  procession  round  the  outer  ring  of  the 
floor.  Yolande  was  bright-eyed  with  enjoyment,  and  Deryk 
extracted  a  great  deal  of  simple  amusement  by  assuming 
a  deep  voice  towards  such  friends  as  he  met  and  leaving 
them  to  discover  his  identity.  The  conical  bag  was  proof 
against  even  Mrs.  Welman,  who  remarked  with  a  puzzled 
expression,  "I  know  your  voice,  but  I  can't  place  it.  Do 
tell  me  who  you  are." 

Deryk  chuckled  and  walked  on.  It  was  nearly  midnight, 
and  they  were  making  their  way  back  to  the  box  for  supper, 
when  a  youthful  Apache  with  cap  over  one  eye,  cigarette 
in  mouth  and  scarlet  muffler  round  his  throat  cannoned 
them. 

"Mind  where  you're  going,  Summertown!"  Deryk  called. 


RECOVERY  245 

"Hullo !"  He  stared  at  the  round,  unbetraying  eyeholes. 
"Nothing  doing;  can't  fix  you.  Who's  your  friend,  Miss 
Stornaway?" 

"Someone  you  know  quite  well,"  she  answered.  "Are 
you  here  alone?" 

"No,  I  blew  in  with  Erckmann's  crowd.  There's  a  good- 
ish  cold  collation  in  his  box,  if  you're  hungry.  Everyone 
welcome;  come  and  bring  a  friend.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me 
who  the  gentleman  in  the  candle-extinguisher  is.  You 
won't?  Well,  assure  me  that  it  isn't  my  poor,  old  father, 
anyway.  We've  had  domestic  trouble  and  we've  promised 
to  lead  a  newish  life.  Papa  would  not  like  to  think  of  us 
here  when  we  might  be  getting  our  beauty  sleep  in  our 
coolish  barracks." 

With  a  drag  at  his  forelock  he  lounged  away,  exchanged 
smiles  with  a  pierrette  and  began  to  dance.  Yolande  and 
Deryk  returned  to  their  box  and  whiled  away  the  time 
before  Raymond's  return  by  listening  to  the  sounds  of 
revelry  from  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann's  party  next  door.  A 
steady  popping  of  corks  mingled  with  the  deep,  guttural 
pleasantries  of  the  host ;  the  new  arrivals  were  greeted 
with  vociferous  welcome,  and  in  the  boxes  on  either  side 
conversation  was  swamped  and  drowned. 

"Liddle  Zonia !"  proclaimed  the  voice  of  Erckmann. 

"Good  evening,  darlings,"  came  the  answer,  drawled  with 
casual,  detached  daintiness.  "Evening,  Sir  Adolf.  Lord 
Summertown  told  me  that  your  party  wouldn't  be  complete 
without  me,  so  of  course  I  came.  Why  aren't  you  in  fancy 
dress  ?" 

"He's  disguised  as  an  English  gentleman,  Sonia,"  hic- 
coughed a  thick  voice.  There  were  sounds  of  affronted 
protest,  defining  themselves  into  "Dry  up,  Pennington,  and 
get  on  with  your  supper."  "You'll  be  chucked  out,  if  you 
can't  behave  yourself."  Then  a  voice,  which  Deryk  rec- 
ognised as  Mrs.  Welman's,  raised  itself  to  say,  "Put  him 
by  me,  and  Fll  keep  him  in  order,"  which  was  swallowed 
in  an  affectedly  tearful  whimper  from  Summertown,  "I 
\von't  be  taken  away  from  the  nice  kind  lady." 


246  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Yolande  raised  her  eyebrows  and  looked  at  her  com- 
panion. 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  like  them,"  she  murmured.  "Can 
you  see  whether  they've  nearly  finished?" 

Deryk  had  removed  his  conical  headpiece,  but  he  settled 
it  in  position  again  and  pushed  a  chair  against  the  partition. 

"About  forty  of  them,  just  getting  their  teeth  in,"  he 
reported  on  his  return.  "And  there  may  be  others  under 
the  table.  I'm  afraid  we've  got  to  put  up  with  it,  unless 
you'd  like  me  to  throw  a  jelly  or  two  over  to  keep  them 
quiet." 

She  shook  her  head  resignedly  and  turned  with  a  smile 
to  her  uncle,  who  had  succeeded  in  mustering  his  party  and 
was  shepherding  them  into  the  box.  They  had  already 
stayed  later  than  they  had  intended,  and,  as  soon  as  supper 
was  over,  George  Oakleigh  gave  a  lead  to  the  faint-hearted 
by  offering  a  seat  in  his  car  to  anyone  living  between 
Knightsbridge  and  the  river.  Raymond  snapped  his  watch 
with  a  "God  bless  my  soul !  And  I've  got  a  big  day  to- 
morrow" ;  and  the  only  reluctant  starters  were  Felix  Alan- 
isty,  who  had  not  been  to  a  ball  since  he  was  an  under- 
graduate, and  Deryk,  who  was  temperamentally  disinclined 
to  go  to  bed  while  anyone  else  was  still  afoot.  At  the 
last  moment  Felix  attempted  rebellion  and  said  that  he,  like 
Deryk,  would  stay  to  finish  his  cigar,  but  Yolande  over- 
ruled him,  and  in  another  moment  they  were  massed  out- 
side, while  Raymond  bribed  attendants  to  find  his  car  for 
him. 

Left  to  himself,  Deryk  strolled  back  to  the  box  and  set- 
tled himself,  replete  and  lethargic,  to  the  enjoyment  of  a 
cigar.  The  tumult  next  door  had  subsided,  and  the  party 
was  gradually  disintegrating.  He  heard  the  same  detached, 
dainty  voice  saying,  "I'm  going  to  have  one  more  with 
Fatty,  and  then  he's  going  to  take  me  home."  Erckmann 
announced  hospitably,  "There's  blenty  more  subber.  When 
you're  hongry,  you  know  vhere  to  gom,  hein?" 

The  door  slammed,  and  he  was  enjoying  the  welcome 
calm,  when  Mrs.  Welman's  voice  said, 


RECOVERY  247 

"I  think  you  might  offer  me  one." 

"It's  the  only  one  I've  got,  but  all  I  have  is  yours,"  came 
the  prompt,  practised  answer.  "And  a  goodish  lucifer; 
be  careful  with  it,  because  it's  the  last." 

Deryk  was  wondering  whether  it  would  not  be  charitable 
to  throw  Summertown  a  cigarette  over  the  partition,  when 
he  heard  a  laugh,  followed  by  a  faint  sound  of  scuffling. 
Then  the  woman's  voice  said, 

"Now  you  may  go.     I  will  find  my  car  myself." 

"But  what's  the  matter?    You  didn't  mind  really." 

Without  waiting  to  analyse  his  feelings,  Deryk  put  on  his 
headpiece  and  again  mounted  the  chair  by  the  partition. 
Immediately  under  him  he  saw  Lucile  Welman  seated  in 
an  armchair  with  her  hands  over  her  face,  while  Summer- 
town  swung  his  legs  from  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  looked 
on  with  an  uncertain  mixture  of  sheepishness  and  bravado. 
The  cap  over  one  eye  and  the  scarlet  muffler  gave  him  an 
air  of  disreputable  jauntiness,  which  was  marred  by  an 
embarrassed  looseness  of  mouth.  Deryk  found  time  to 
wonder  how  he  himself  had  looked  on  the  first  occasion 
that  he  had  kissed  Lucile.  Then  he  climbed  down,  re-lit 
his  cigar  and  began  to  look  for  his  hat  and  coat. 

"No  bones  broken,"  said  Summertown  cheerfully,  trying 
to  draw  away  her  hands. 

"Please  go,  Lord  Summertown,"  she  answered  in  the 
same  frozen  voice. 

"But  I've  not  done  you  any  harm." 

"Oh,  you've  spoilt  everything!  I  thought  you  were  just 
a  nice,  friendly  boy ;  I  liked  you  because  you  were  so  young 
and  chivalrous;  I  thought  you  were  a  little  bit  sorry  for 
me,  too " 

She  broke  off  with  a  shiver.  Summertown  slid  deeper 
into  the  chair  and  put  his  arm  round  her  waist ;  Deryk, 
throwing  his  coat  over  one  arm,  bit  deeply  into  his  cigar. 

"If  you  want  me  to  go,  I'll  go,"  said  Summertown.  "It 
seems  rather  rot,  though,  when  we  could  have  such  fun 
together;  we  should  both  regret  it,  you  know." 

She  tried  to  remove  his  arm  and  rise  from  the  chair. 


248  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Now  you  are  insulting  me,"  she  said. 

"Bunkum!"  he  retorted  with  a  laugh.  "Did  you  mind 
my  kissing  you,  Lucile  ?  If  you  say  you  did,  I'll  apologise 
and  clear  out." 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  stood  over  her  with  his  hands 
on  his  hips.  The  door  of  Deryk's  box  was  already  open, 
and  he  closed  it  hurriedly. 

"Did  you  mind?"  he  repeated. 

"I  won't  be  bullied !"  she  answered  with  a  pout. 

Summertown  laughed  with  assurance  and  went  back  to 
his  place  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  as  Deryk  again  opened 
the  door  and  headed  for  the  nearest  staircase.  Everything 
had  happened  so  quickly  that  he  still  did  not  know  what 
to  feel.  There  was  finality  at  last;  his  relationship  with 
Lucile  Welman,  which  he  had  tried  to  end  a  dozen  times, 
was  over;  but  he  was  humiliated  that  she  could  end  it  at 
her  pleasure  and  not  his.  Anger  and  a  sense  of  betrayal 
filled  his  mind  so  that  he  failed  to  see  that  she  was  doing 
what  he  would  light-heartedly  have  done,  if  a  successor  of 
greater  novelty  or  attraction  had  come  his  way.  Summer- 
town  was  welcome  to  what  he  had  got ;  there  was  no  room 
for  resentment  or  jealousy  there;  they  would  meet — as  he 
had  met  his  own  predecessors.  .  .  . 

At  the  corner  of  the  stairs  he  collided  with  a  girl  in 
Turkish  dress,  who  was  walking  up  alone.  Mumbling  an 
apology,  he  was  beginning  to  dodge  aside,  when  she  gave 
a  little  startled  cry  of  recognition.  For  the  first  time  he 
troubled  himself  to  look  beyond  the  pointed  shoes  and 
t>^&gy»  divided  skirt  to  the  eyes  that  peered  at  him  over 
the  yashmak.  The  deep  blue,  tinged  in  some  light  with 
violet  belonged  to  no  woman  of  his  acquaintance  but  Idina 
Dawson.    She  came  upon  him  absorbed  and  unprepared. 

"Yolande  told  me  you  weren't  coming,"  he  found  himself 
saying  after  a  seemingly  endless  silence.  His  voice  sounded 
to  him  remote  and  uncontrolled.  "Have  you  been  here 
long?  There's  such  a  crowd,  I'm  going  home.  Er — what 
news  of  your  husband?  Stornaway  told  me  he  was 
ill -" 


RECOVERY  249 

The  little  conventional  sentences  poured  out  as  if  they 
would  have  no  end.  He  was  so  much  surprised  to  find 
himself  able  to  speak  at  all  that  he  concentrated  all  his 
powers  on  continuing  to  talk.  Six  months  before  he  had 
pictured  himself  superbly  cutting  Idina  when  they  met; 
later,  he  had  felt  that  both  would  be  too  much  embarrassed 
to  speak.  He  was  amazed  at  his  own  collectedness.  Now 
he  was  asking  if  she  had  brought  her  car;  could  he  help 
to  find  it  ?    Might  he  see  her  home  ? 

"How  is  Sir  Aylmer?"  Idina  asked.  "I  didn't  really 
mean  to  come,  but  my  husband  was  getting  some  sleep, 
and,  as  I  had  the  tickets,  I  thought  I'd  look  in  to  see  the 
dresses.  It's  a  wonderful  sight,  isn't  it?  I've  no  idea 
how  many  people  there  are  here.  Your  dress  is  wonderful, 
of  course;  not  quite  fair,  perhaps,  because  I  should  never 
have  known  you,  if  you  hadn't  spoken.  I've  come  without 
a  watch;  is  it  very  late?" 

She,  too,  talked  breathlessly  with  a  stream  of  conven- 
tional questions  and  comments,  steering  eagerly  for  the  un- 
embarrassing  and  non-committal.  For  a  while  they  alter- 
nated in  speech,  following  parallel  lines  and  automatically 
starting  again  when  the  other  stopped,  but  with  no  attempt 
to  converse;  then  Idina  ceased,  and  Deryk  was  unequal  to 
taking  his  turn.  They  stood  silent  and  uneasy,  until  Idina 
cast  back  to  his  first  words. 

"Yes,  I  told  Yolande  not  to  expect  me,"  she  said  hur- 
riedly. "I  really  didn't  think  I  could  get  away.  .  .  .  You 
say  you're  going  now?" 

"It's  frightfully  packed  and  a  bit  rowdy,"  Deryk  an- 
swered quickly.  "If  you've  got  your  car — oh,  then  you 
must  let  me  give  you  a  lift;  it's  on  my  way.  Yes,  on  my 
honour  it  is.  You're  in  Eaton  Square,  aren't  you?  And 
I've  got  rooms  in  Bury  Street.  If  you'll  get  your  cloak, 
I'll  see  about  a  taxi." 


They  were  half-way  along  Knightsbridge  before  either 
spoke.    Then  Idina  began  suddenly, 


250  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Deryk " 


He  turned  half  away  and  fumbled  for  his  cigarette  case. 

"Are  you  sure  I  don't  know  what  you're  going  to  say?" 
he  asked.  "Dina,  it  was  pure  chance  that  we  met.  Hadn't 
— hadn't  we  better  leave  it  at  that  ?" 

"But  I  wanted  to  tell  you  I  was  sorry,  I  wronged 
you " 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  hers  for  a  moment. 

"We  can't  alter  it  now,"  he  said.  "Dina,  we  were  awful 
good  friends  for  years  and  years ;  and,  now  that  we've  met, 

we    can   be    friends   again — at    least "      He   hesitated, 

wondering  whether  he  wanted  ever  to  meet  her  again.  "I 
mean,  we  were  kids  together  for  so  long,  and,  if  we  meet 
again " 

The  new  conditional  was  not  lost  on  her,  but  she  affected 
not  to  notice  it. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  speak  of — that  time?    I  won't." 

"Or  think  of  it,"  he  suggested  eagerly.  "Wash  it  away 
from  your  mind  and  start  again,  as  if — as  if  I'd  just  come 
back  to  England  and  heard  that  you  were  married.  I — I 
should  say  your  husband  was  a  jolly  lucky  fellow  and  I 
should  wish  you  best  of  luck." 

The  note  of  hearty,  almost  boisterous,  good-humour  was 
out  of  tune  with  her  mood,  and  she  attempted  no  reply 
for  several  minutes.  Deryk  lay  back  in  his  corner,  as 
the  taxi  bumped  along  Knightsbridge  and  slowed  down 
before  turning  south  towards  Eaton  Square.  He  felt  as 
if  he  were  just  awaking  after  a  day  of  unbearable  excite- 
ment and  a  restless  night.  Things  that  had  filled  his  mind 
a  few  hours  before  came  back  almost  audibly  after  their 
temporary  exile.  He  remembered  Raymond's  detached, 
man-of-the-world  advice  and  his  own  reception  of  it,  which 
seemed  so  dignified  at  the  time  and  yet  had  so  signally 
failed  to  impress  Raymond.  He  remembered  wishing  that 
some  one  would  drop  a  hint  to  his  father,  so  that  he  could 
go  down  to  Ripley  Court  without  too  unconditional  a  sur- 
render ...  He  had  even  begun  to  construct  the  scene — 
and  had  abandoned  it  because  it  presented  him  in  so  much 


RECOVERY  251 

less  heroic  a  light  than  when  in  imagination  he  had  burst 
in  with  a  pass-book  in  his  hand,  declaiming  that  his  destiny 
was  not  to  be  reined  by  another  man's  purse-strings.  In 
the  last  ten  months  he  had  fulfilled  a  few  of  his  own  am- 
bitions and  many  of  his  father's  forebodings.  He  could 
make  money,  but  he  could  no  longer  trust  himself  not  to 
waste  it  and  his  own  life  with  it;  he  could  no  longer  be 
sure  of  saving  himself  from  the  first  woman  who  troubled 
to  attack  him ;  for  all  his  fastidiousness,  he  had  for  some 
months  been  flattered  and  fed  by  that  same  Erckmann  and 
his  followers  whom  they  had  heard  roistering  that  night. 
Anyone,  seemingly,  could  spin  him  about  and  send  him  in 
any  direction  .  .  .  And  he  did  not  care  enough  to  resist; 
and,  when  it  was  all  over,  he  did  not  care  about  what  he 
had  done.  He  was  drifting — and  he  did  not  care  whether 
he  drifted  or  not ;  he  was  tired,  and  there  was  nothing  on 
earth  to  keep  him  from  drifting.  .  .  . 

The  memory  of  Lucile  Welman  came  back  suddenly 
with  jagged,  wounding  edges.  He  had  almost  forgotten  her 
in  the  disarming  surprise  of  meeting  Idina  and  he  now 
strove  to  loosen  and  repel  her  until  he  had  time  to  think 
calmly  and  without  giving  himself  so  much  pain  as  any 
thought  of  her  now  caused  him.  She  must  be  surveyed 
and  measured  in  all  her  bearings  and  significance.  .  .  . 

He  roused  himself  to  find  the  taxi  entering  Eaton 
Square;  another  chord  in  his  memory  was  touched. 

"I  hope  you'll  soon  have  better  news  of  your  husband," 
he  said  in  a  correctly  sympathetic  voice. 

Idina  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  leaned  to 
him  with  sudden  nervous  decision. 

"Tell  the  man  to  go  to  your  rooms  first,"  she  said. 
"I'll  drop  you  and  come  back  here.  I  want  to  say  some- 
thing, I  want  your  advice !" 

Her  excited  tone  made  him  look  at  her  in  surprise,  but 
he  opened  the  window  and  gave  the  new  order  without 
comment.  As  the  taxi  turned  and  headed  for  Buckingham 
Palace,  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve  and  faced  him  with 
an  expression  of  entreaty. 


252  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"What  would  you  do  about  him?"  she  asked.  "My  hus- 
band, I  mean.  At  least,  I  don't  know  how  much  Mr.  Storn- 
away told  you " 

"He  only  spoke  very  generally.  You're  trying  a  new  man 
in  Naples,  aren't  you?    I  should  think " 

"I'll  tell  you  how  bad  he  is,"  she  interrupted.  "You 
know  he's  swollen  to  twice  his  normal  size?  Well,  he  is — 
First  the  wrists  and  ankles,  then  the  legs  and  arms,  now  the 
whole  body  .  .  .  like  some  dreadful  caricature.  His  eyes 
were  just  little  slits.  .  .  .  Then  his  sight  failed  three  days 
ago. 

"This  is  awful !"  Deryk  exclaimed  with  a  shudder.  "Is 
there — is  there  much  hope  for  him  ?" 

"The  doctor  says  this  man  in  Naples  is  the  only  chance. 
Deryk,  have — have  I  got  to  go  with  him?" 

It  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  that  she  would 
and  must  accompany  her  husband. 

"Yes.    You'll  take  an  attendant,  of  course " 

"He  doesn't  know  what  he's  saying  sometimes,"  she  went 
on  distractedly.  "It  isn't  delirium,  but  sometimes  he  seems 
to  go  mad  and  think  I'm  trying  to  kill  him.  He  won't  take 
food  if  I'm  in  the  room,  because  he  says  I've  poisoned  it. 
He  orders  me  out — in  front  of  the  nurses — and  says  the 
most  dreadful  things — that  I'm  only  waiting  for  him  to 
die  so  that  I  can  marry  again,  that  I  married  him  for 
money,  that  I  never  cared  for  him — oh,  and  the  wildest, 
horridest  suspicions!  It  isn't  true,  Deryk;  I  gave  him 
ever}fthing  I  had  to  give.  It  may  not  have  been  much,  but, 
God  knows,  it  wasn't  easy  to  give." 

She  ended  with  a  little  sob,  and  Deryk's  hand  closed 
restrainingly  and  with  authority  upon  her  wrist.  At  the 
same  moment  the  taxi  entered  Ryder  Street,  and  he  hastily 
told  the  driver  to  drive  once  round  the  Park  and  then  come 
back.  The  man  leered,  but  Deryk's  mind  was  too  much 
occupied  to  wonder  whether  they  were  regarded  as  ro- 
mantic revellers  insatiably  prolonging  a  six-hour  flirtation 
into  the  daylight. 

"Dina,  you've  got  to  pull  yourself  together,"  he  said 


RECOVERY  253 

sternly.  "I'm  going  to  be  thoroughly  unsympathetic  and 
brutal.  You've  got  to  go.  He's  your  husband,  and  you've 
got  to  see  him  through." 

The  sudden  sternness  steadied  her,  but  after  a  moment's 
silence  she  cried, 

"Deryk,  I  can't !    I  can't !     You  don't  know." 

He  tried  the  effect  of  blandness  and  reason. 

"What's  the  alternative?"  he  asked.  "Are  you  going  to 
stay  behind  ?" 

"I  must  get  away  from  him." 

"And  where  are  you  going  to  ?" 

"I  don't  know.     Oh,  Deryk,  for  God's  sake,  heip  me!" 

Her  little  store  of  fortitude  was  spent,  and  she  collapsed 
limply  into  her  corner,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  sobbing  with  the  accumulated  exhaustion  and  misery 
of  the  past  month.  The  sound  acted  on  Deryk  like  a  lash; 
his  boasted  new  indifference  to  her  melted  as  quickly  as  his 
remembrance  of  the  suffering  she  had  caused  him.  All  that 
he  saw  was  someone  tormented  past  bearing  and  unable  to 
help  herself,  someone  shaken  by  her  own  ungovernable 
emotion  and  disfigured  with  weeping.  He  drew  her  into  his 
arms,  caressing  and  soothing  her  like  a  child. 

"Dina !  I  can't  bear  it,  if  you  cry,"  he  whispered.  "Tell 
me  what  you  want,  tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  help  you." 

"Take  me  away  from  him!"  she  sobbed.  "He's  killing 
me!" 

Deryk  again  caught  her  hand  and  gripped  it  until  she 
was  grown  quieter.  For  a  while  he  would  not  risk  the 
effect  of  speech  upon  her  and  sat  looking  away  through  the 
window,  as  the  taxi  sped  along  Piccadilly  and  turned  into 
the  Park.  Inept  irrelevancies  crowded  into  his  head;  he 
was  fascinated  by  the  hunched  back  of  the  driver,  who 
was  like  a  coachman  from  some  novel  of  Dickens',  in  his 
exuberant  grey  muffler  and  faded  green  overcoat ;  the  early 
morning  was  bitterly  cold,  and  he  wondered,  as  he  always 
wondered,  how  women  could  go  about  at  night  with  noth- 
ing but  a  transparent  film  between  their  shoulders  and  the 
air 


254  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Where  am  I  to  take  you  to  ?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"I  don't  care.  Take  me  anywhere.  I'll  do  whatever  you 
tell  me  to." 

"My  dear,  there's  nowhere  I  could  take  you.  I  think  you 
ought  to  stay  with  him,  you'd  never  live  it  down  if  it  were 
known  that  you'd  left  him.  And  it  zvould  be  known ;  these 
things  always  are.  But,  quite  apart  from  that,  you're  depend- 
ent on  him  as  long  as  he  lives.  I  could  find  you  money  for  a 
few  weeks,  but,  as  soon  as  a  scandal  got  on  foot,  it  would 
be  a  different  thing  altogether.  Thanks  to  the  governor's 
reflected  glory,  I'm  too  well  known  to  risk  offending  people 
from  whom  I  want  work."  He  took  her  hand  and  pressed 
it.  "I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  to  help  you,  but  it  wouldn't 
do  for  you  to  run  away.  You've  got  to  scrape  together 
all  the  courage  you  can  find,  you've  got  to  see  this  through, 
Dina :  I'm  going  to  take  you  home." 

This  time  there  was  no  remonstrance.  Her  head  drooped 
a  little  and  came  to  rest  with  one  cheek  pressing  against 
his  shoulder.  Once  a  shiver  ran  through  her,  and  he  took 
off  his  overcoat  and  wrapped  it  about  her.  Sitting  in  his 
bizarre  dress,  he  had  a  momentary  feeling  that  he  was 
playing  his  inquisitor's  part  in  earnest,  sending  Idina  back 
to  be  tormented  and  in  some  way,  which  he  was  too  tired 
to  analyse  or  define,  saving  the  soul  at  the  expense  of  the 
flesh.  He  wondered  how  much  imagination  an  inquisitor 
had,  whether  they  ever  sat  in  judgment  on  people  they 
loved  and  whether,  as  their  appreciation  of  suffering  grew 
finer,  they  actually  won  a  subtile  pleasure  from  the  agony 
of  men  and  women  whom  they  knew.  .  .  .  Idina  sat  staring 
in  front  of  her,  while  the  taxi  completed  the  circle  and  left 
the  Park  for  Belgrave  Square.  He  wondered  how  she  ha.d 
managed  to  get  out,  with  a  dying  husband  in  the  house, 
doctors  coming  and  going,  nurses  hurrying  to  her  with 
messages.  Suppose  Sidney  sent  for  her,  and  she  was  not 
there ;  suppose  a  servant  saw  her  coming  in  at  six  o'clock 
in  fancy  costume.  .  .  .  And  then  he  tried  to  compute  the 
desperation  and  agony  of  mind  which  had  allowed  or  com- 
pelled her  to  seek  distraction  and  f orgetfulness ;  he  began 


RECOVERY  255 

to  picture  her  return  to  the  bleak  house,  her  timid  passage, 
growing  ever  more  slow,  up  the  stairs,  her  moment's  pause 
to  listen  outside  the  door.  .  .  ,  The  taxi  stopped,  and  he 
woke  to  find  himself  on  the  kerb,  asking  if  she  had  her 
latch-key.  Under  the  eyes  of  the  driver  both  rallied  to  an 
artificially  natural  carelessness. 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  bring  me  home,"  she  said, 
holding  out  her  hand. 

"I  shall  see  you  again  soon,  shan't  I?"  he  answered  in 
the  same  false  measure. 

"I  don't  quite  know  when  we're  going  abroad,  but  I'll 
try  to  let  you  know.     Good-night." 

Deryk  clambered  back  into  the  taxi,  picked  up  his  over- 
coat where  it  had  slipped  from  Idina's  shoulders  and  drove 
once  more  to  Bury  Street.  The  fire  had  long  gone  out,  and 
the  room  was  airless  and  cold.  He  turned  from  force  of 
habit  to  his  writing-table  and  picked  up  a  pile  of  letters, 
meaning  only  to  glance  at  the  writing  and  leave  the  contents 
until  he  was  less  exhausted.  The  first  envelope,  however, 
was  addressed  in  pencil  and  marked  "Most  urgent."  He 
opened  it  and  had  to  look  at  the  signature  before  he  rec- 
ognised the  hurried  scrawl  as  Hatherly's ;  it  stated  that  the 
writer  had  spent  the  evening,  until  the  last  train  was  ready 
to  start,  vainly  looking  for  him. 

"Your  father  is  dying:  I  implore  you  to  come  before  it 
is  too  late." 

Deryk  read  the  note  twice,  swaying  slightly  from  fatigue 
and  reflecting  dispassionately,  as  though  criticising  his  own 
dream,  that  it  was  curious  and  yet  quite  natural  that  the 
news  should  have  come  to  him  as  and  when  it  did.  Then, 
he  turned  to  the  second  letter  in  the  pile  and  was  as  much 
and  as  little  surprised  to  see  his  father's  writing,  in  pen- 
strokes  that  told  their  own  tale. 

"My  dear  Deryk,"  he  read. 

"I  have  been  far  from  well  and  I  can  see  that  Forsyte 
takes  a  grave  view.  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  can  find  time 
to  run  down  here.  "Your  afifectionate  father, 

"Aylmer  Lancing." 


256  MIDAS  AND  SON 

This  time  Deryk  felt  himself  stirred  to  artistic  admi- 
ration. His  head  was  singing  too  persistently  for  him  to 
feel;  he  believed  that  he  could  be  knocked  down  and  be- 
laboured, like  a  drunken  man,  without  noticing  it,  but  the 
isolated  brain  cell  that  seemed  to  exist  for  irrelevancy  and 
detached  criticism  noticed  and  approved  the  reticence  and 
dignity  of  the  letter.  There  was  no  whimpering,  no  fear, 
no  menace  or  cajolery.  Sir  Aylmer  was  evidently  resolved 
to  die  in  the  pose  that  he  had  adopted  for  half  his  life. 

"He'll  refuse  to  have  the  parson  in,"  Deryk  reflected. 
"And  he'll  probably  make  Benson  stand  him  upright  at  the 
finish."  Then  his  mind  cleared  suddenly,  and  the  numbing 
weariness  left  him. 

"He's  dying !"  he  whispered.  "He's  been  near  it  so  often 
that  I  didn't  think  he  could.  He  knows  he's  dying,  or  he 
wouldn't  have  written  like  that.  My  God !  I  may  not  get 
there  in  time !" 

With  the  pulses  hammering  in  his  temples,  he  rushed 
downstairs  and  seized  a  time-table  from  the  hall.  There  was 
a  train  from  Victoria  to  Aston  Ripley  at  seven  o'clock,  slow 
running  and  with  two  changes,  but  at  least  the  train  that 
would  take  him  to  his  father  in  quickest  time.  Changing 
out  of  the  fantastic  costume  which  now  seemed  to  mock 
him,  he  took  a  hurried  bath  and  ransacked  his  wardrobe  for 
thick  clothes  against  the  cold  which  was  penetrating  and 
spreading  over  him.  Only  when  he  was  huddled  in  his 
corner  did  he  remember  that  he  had  eaten  nothing  for  hours 
and  was  sick  with  hunger.  There  was  no  time  to  look  for 
food  lest  the  train  go  without  him,  and,  though  the  warmth 
of  the  carriage  made  him  drowsy,  he  dared  not  sleep  for 
fear  of  being  carried  beyond  the  junction  or  of  missing 
Aston  Ripley  in  the  long  succession  of  moribund  wayside 
stations,  each  in  charge  of  a  single  somnolent  porter  and  lit 
by  a  single  gusty  lamp. 

The  uncertain  blue-grey  dawn  had  changed  to  a  sunless 
November  morning  when  at  last  he  was  able  to  get  out  and 
stamp  his  feet  on  the  platform.  Two  farmers  touched 
their  hats  to  him,  as  he  strode  into  the  main  street  after 


RECOVERY  257 

failing  to  find  a  fly,  and,  among  the  dozen  faces  that  he 
saw  in  the  first  mile,  half  were  vaguely  familiar.  As  soon 
as  the  feeling  had  come  back  to  his  feet,  he  broke  into  a 
run,  head  down  and  elbows  to  his  sides,  hardly  noticing 
the  houses  or  passers-by,  until  he  paused  with  a  resentful, 
sideways  glance  at  the  mildewed  desolation  of  the  Grange 
and  then  plunged  on  into  the  park  of  Ripley  Court.  Half 
a  mile  farther  he  stopped  and  deliberately  relaxed  himself 
after  the  hours  of  cramping  fear  which  he  had  felt  since 
reading  his  father's  letter.  The  flag  still  floated  from  the 
staff,  not  a  window  that  he  could  see  was  blinded,  and  in 
garden  and  stables  the  men  were  going  unconcernedly 
about  their  work.  A  great  relief  came  to  him,  and  he  start- 
ed on  again  collectedly  and  in  hope  towards  the  chapel.  In 
response  to  his  ring  the  side  door  was  cautiously  opened  a 
few  inches  by  Hatherly,  white-faced,  heavy-eyed  and  un- 
shaven. 

"I  came  as  soon  as  I  could,"  Deryk  whispered,  as  he 
shook  hands  and  passed  into  a  hall  still  warm  with  yester- 
day's fires  and  so  silent  that  it  seemed  irreverent  to  speak 
above  a  whisper.    "How  is  he?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Hatherly  answered.  "Forsyte  reported 
that  no  ground  had  been  lost  up  to  last  night,  but  he  was 
asleep  when  I  got  back  and  I  haven't  seen  him.  He  said 
you  were  to  be  shewn  in  the  moment  you  arrived.  I'm 
glad  you  haven't  disappointed  him,  Deryk.  You'll  find 
Phillimore  stationed  outside  the  room ;  he  wouldn't  have 
anyone  with  him.  Don't  disturb  him,  if  he's  asleep ;  he  must 
have  sleep.  And  don't  stay  more  than  a  moment.  I  shall 
be  within  call,  if  you  want  me,  and,  whatever  happens, 
don't  say  anything  to  excite  or  tire  him.  He  is — I'm  not 
sure  that  I  can  make  you  understand  how  bad  he  is." 

Deryk  tiptoed  across  the  hall  and  into  his  father's  wing, 
a  little  impatient  at  being  lectured  in  so  great  particularity. 
As  he  approached  the  door,  old  Phillimore  rose  in  tremulous 
welcome  and  indicated  in  dumb  show  that  his  master  was 
sleeping.  Deryk  nodded  and  turned  the  handle  noiselessly. 
After  all  his  preparation  he  was  startled  to  find  his  father 


258  MIDAS  AND  SON 

sitting  up  with  an  open  book  face  downwards  in  his  lap  and 
the  reading  lamp  at  the  back  of  the  bed  alight  and  shining 
past  him  on  to  the  door.  Even  in  shadow  ten  months  had 
brought  about  a  noticeable  change;  the  furrowed  cheeks 
were  appreciably  more  sunken  and  the  rather  mournful 
eyes  more  prominent.  Sir  Aylmer  sat  with  his  thin,  large- 
boned  hands  on  the  eider-down  and  his  eyes  turned  to  the 
door,  silent,  unrevealing,  without  frown  or  smile.  He 
might  well  have  sat  there  for  ten  months,  awaiting  Deryk's 
return;  and  he  seemed  capable  of  sitting  for  any  number 
of  months  more. 

"I  hope  you're  better,  dad;  I'm  sorry  to  hear  you've 
been  ill  again,"  Deryk  began,  still  keeping  his  voice  almost 
down  to  a  whisper,  "I  came  the  moment  I  got  your  letter." 
He  had  found  no  time  nor  wish  to  construct  the  scene  be- 
forehand or  to  rehearse  his  speeches.  "I  am  sorry  to  have 
been  away  so  long,"  he  went  on  deliberately  after  a  mo- 
ment's struggle  with  himself.  "I've  missed  you  most  aw- 
fully." 

He  walked  to  the  bedside,  smiling  and  holding  out  his 
hand.  Sir  Aylmer  continued  to  look  at  him  without  speak- 
ing, and  Deryk  was  piqued  to  find,  when  both  were  to 
blame,  that  all  the  contrition  and  graciousness  came  from 
one  side. 

"I  hope  you're  glad  to  see  me,"  he  went  on  with  a  hint 
of  tartness  in  his  voice.  A  moraent  later  he  was  sorry  for 
it;  he  had  not  realised  that  his  father  might  be  too  weak 
for  speech ;  Hatherly's  forgotten  lecture  returned  to  his 
mind.  "I  mustn't  stay  any  longer,  because  you're  supposed 
to  be  asleep,  but  I  had  to  look  in  to  see  how  you  were.  I'll 
say  good-bye  for  the  present,  but  I  shall  be  here  whenever 
you  want  me." 

His  hand  went  out  and  closed  lightly  over  his  father's; 
immediately  he  started  back  with  a  sob  of  dismayed  fear 
on  finding  the  hand  cold  and  stiff.  He  stared  in  amaze- 
ment at  the  open,  unwavering  eyes ;  then  he  swung  the 
reading-lamp  round  and  deflected  the  bulb  until  the  light 
shone  directly  on  to  the  face.    In  the  earlier  half-light  the 


RECOVERY  259 

cheek  and  jaw  had  seemed  almost  to  be  in  shadow ;  Deryk 
had  assumed  it  to  be  the  blue-grained  skin  and  stubbly 
growth  of  a  dark  man  who  had  not  shaved;  in  the  new 
light  the  skin  of  the  face,  stretching  up  to  the  forehead  and 
down  to  the  neck  was  shewn  to  be  suffused  from  below 
with  such  a  blue  as  Deryk  had  never  seen  before.  Replac- 
ing the  lamp,  he  was  starting  to  summon  Phillimore  from 
outside,  when  he  realised  that  no  help  was  needed.  He 
turned  back  and,  without  looking  at  his  father,  laid  a  towel 
over  the  ghastly  discoloration.  Then  he  tiptoed  into  the 
hall,  closing  the  door  noiselessly  behind  him. 

Hatherly  hurried  up  with  eyebrows  raised  interrogatively, 
"I  suppose  he's  dead,"  Deryk  answered  quietly.    "I  advise 
you  not  to  uncover  the  face;  oh,  don't  uncover  the  face! 
For  God's  sake,  don't  uncover  the  face!" 

Then  an  internal  mechanism  over  which  he  had  no  con- 
trol began  to  emit  peals  of  shrillj  helpless  laughter,  which 
rang  harshly  through  the  great,  silent  house.  Hatherly,  bit- 
ing his  thumb,  looked  from  Deryk  to  Sir  Aylmer's  door  and 
from  Sir  Aylmer's  door  back  to  Deryk.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  he  led  the  boy  away  where  his  laughter  would 
sound  less  atrocious. 


Deryk's  outburst  of  hysteria  had  had  its  preparation  in 
ten  months  of  over-work,  over-excitement,  over-taxation  of 
physical  reserves  and  nervous  energy  and  eveiy  kind  of 
over-indulgence.  It  was  only  occasioned  by  the  shock  of  his 
father's  death  and  was  not  to  pass  away  when  the  shock  had 
abated.  Hatherly,  divesting  himself  of  nearly  twenty  years 
of  his  life,  found  it  necessary  to  put  him  to  bed,  and,  until 
the  doctor  arrived  and  sent  him  to  sleep,  Deryk  alternated 
between  a  helpless  collapse  and  a  feverish  desire  to  be  prac- 
tical. At  one  moment  he  was  seated  on  the  side  of  his  bed, 
weeping  limply  and  inconsolably ;  at  another  he  would  raise 
himself  on  his  pillows  and  confer  nervously  on  the  funeral, 
arrangements. 


26o  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"You  have  to  get  a  doctor's  certificate,  don't  you?"  he 
asked  vaguely,  blinking  at  Hatherly  with  flickering  eyelids. 

"I'll  see  to  all  that,"  was  the  answer.  "Go  to  sleep  now, 
or  you  won't  be  able  to  help  me  later." 

Deryk  lay  back  for  a  moment,  only  to  rise  again  on  his 
elbow  with  another  question. 

"Did  my  father  say  where  he  wanted  to  be  buried?"  he 
pursued.  "That's  usually  put  into  the  will,  isn't  it?  Have 
you  got  the  will?  I'm  quite  all  right  now;  I  ujant  to  talk 
things  over  with  you." 

Hatherly  looked  at  the  flushed  face  and  dilated  pupils. 

"I'll  see  to  all  that,  Deryk,"  he  repeated.  "He  wanted  to 
be  cremated  and  to  have  the  ashes  buried  in  the  chapel  here. 
The  will  is  actually  in  the  house."  He  hesitated  and  then 
decided  to  go  on  as  he  had  started.  "Your  father  altered 
it  two  or  three  months  ago.  We  can  talk  about  that  later, 
but  I'll  tell  you  now  that  he  has  abolished  the  trust." 

Deryk  looked  at  him  without  understanding. 

"Abolished  the  trust?"  he  echoed.    "Why?" 

Hatherly  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  don't  know.  I'll  say  frankly  that  it  was  against  my 
advice.  It  was  a  great  disappointment,  of  course,  that  he 
never  saw  you,  but  he  followed  all  that  you  were  doing  as 
best  he  could.  George  Oakleigh  dropped  a  hint  now  and 
again ;  and  there  were  others.  As  you  know,  he  was  always 
afraid  that  your  expectations  might  land  you  in  trouble  with 
some  woman  or  that  you  might  degenerate  into  a  mere  ex- 
travagant young  waster.  He  seems  to  have  satisfied  him- 
self that  you  were  too  level-headed  for  that." 

Deryk  stared  reflectively  at  the  ceiling  for  some  moments. 

"Are  yoiif"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"I  think  so.  You've  got  your  faults,  but  I  think  you're 
fairly  well-balanced  and  clean-living.  But  we  can  talk 
about  all  this  later.  I've  sent  for  Forsyte,  and  you've  got 
to  have  a  complete  rest,  while  I  attend  to  the  immediate — 
business  requirements.  I  only  mentioned  the  trust,  because 
you  can  hardly  start  thinking  about  that  too  soon.     The 


RECOVERY  261 

whole  of  your  father's  money,  barring  a  few  legacies,  comes 
to  you  almost  unconditionally." 

For  two  nights  and  one  day  Deryk  was  kept  in  bed  and 
asleep.  At  the  end  of  the  first  night  Yolande  appeared  mys- 
[  teriously  and  asked  permission  to  help  in  the  nursing.  She 
found  Mrs.  Benson  white-faced,  tearful  and  uncomprehend- 
ing, and  was  warned  that  her  patient  occasionally  talked 
strangely  in  his  sleep ;  indeed,  every  effort  was  made  to  keep 
her  out  of  the  room,  as  though  her  own  self-respect  and  her 
faith  in  Deryk  were  being  jeopardised  together.  Certainly 
after  one  night  in  his  room  she  found  it  hard  to  pretend 
that  he  had  said  nothing. 

"I  didn't  hear  a  quarter  of  what  you  were  saying,"  she 
told  him  steadily.    "And  that  I've  forgotten." 

"What  did  I  say?"  he  demanded. 

"Deryk  darling,  I've  forgotten.  And  I  swear  it  won't 
make  any  difference  to  me.  You're  just  the  same  as  you 
always  were." 

"In  spite  of  what  you  heard?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "But  I've  really  forgotten  what 
I  did  hear." 

Dr.  Forsyte  consented  to  put  his  diagnosis  into  simple 
language  for  Hatherly's  benefit.  Deryk,  he  said,  was  wear- 
ing himself  out  with  ordinary  unprofitable  dissipation;  he 
must  be  wooed  away  from  the  malign  influence  of  London 
and  kept  in  the  country  with  someone  to  insist  on  early 
hours,  suitable  companionship  and  a  sane  regimen.  He  was 
behaving  as  other  young  men  had  behaved  before,  but  he 
started  life  in  a  higher  state  of  nervous  excitability  than 
they  did  and,  as  they  had  regretted  it,  so  he  would  regret  it  ; 
the  lowest  price  that  he  would  have  to  pay  was  likely  to  be 
a  collapse,  and,  inasmuch  as  men  living  his  life  seldom  re- 
main stationary,  he  might  look  forward  to  delirium  tremens 
as  the  next  forfeit  to  be  paid,  or  he  might  contract  the  habit 
of  taking  drugs,  or  adopt  any  one  of  a  number  of  other 
ingenious  devices  for  destroying  an  unusually  fine  constitu- 
tion by  over-stimulation  and  over-exhaustion. 

"He  only  wants  pulling  up,  my  dear  Hatherly,"  the  doc- 


262  MIDAS  AND  SON 

tor  concluded,  "but  he  wants  that  pretty  badly.  Very  likely 
this  shock  will  warn  him,  and  I've  no  doubt  that  he'll  have 
so  much  to  think  about  that  he  may  change  his  mode  of  life. 
But  he  mustn't  even  work  too  hard ;  he  must  learn  to  be 
moderate ;  don't  try  to  distract  his  thoughts  from  undesir- 
able companions  by  driving  him  quicker  than  he  can  trot ; 
otherwise  he'll  take  his  revenge  by  stimulating  himself  artifi- 
cially, and  you'll  be  back  again  where  you  are  now." 

Hatherly  nodded,  thinking  of  a  time  often  described  to 
him  when  Sir  Aylmer  was  tidying  the  most  fruitful  years  of 
his  life  into  the  Lancing  Trust  Corporation,  working  twelve 
and  fourteen  hours  a  day  and  ultimately  coming  to  subsist 
on  champagne,  black  coffee,  biscuits  and  cigars.  The  Trust 
had  been  launched  at  the  expense  of  a  stroke  and  half  a 
generation  of  helplessness  and  suffering;  now  its  proceeds 
were  changing  hands.  ,  .  .  If  he  wanted  to  run  amuck, 
Deryk  would  not  now  lack  opportunities :  in  so  far  as  pleas- 
ure and  the  world  were  venal,  he  had  them  at  his  feet. 

Hatlierly  returned  to  the  subject  of  the  will  immedi- 
ately after  the  cremation,  but  for  the  time  Der^'k's  mind  was 
absorbed.  In  the  moment  of  death  he  first  saw  his  father  as 
the  world  saw  him.  As  soon  as  he  was  allowed  out  of  bed, 
he  went  with  Yolande  into  the  library  and  began  to  deal  with 
the  letters  and  telegrams  which  had  been  pouring  in  since 
the  news  of  the  death  was  made  public.  Deryk  found  circu- 
lars from  press-cutting  agencies,  enclosing  two-column 
obituary  notices  and  offering  to  collect  twenty-five,  fifty,  a 
hundred  or  five  hundred  more  references  to  Sir  Aylmer  or 
himself  in  the  British  or  colonial  press ;  the  Governing  Body 
of  Melton  School,  the  Senates  of  seven  universities  and  the 
governors  of  thirteen  hospitals  forwarded  copies  of  their 
unanimous  resolutions  of  sympathy  with  the  son  and  grati- 
tude to  the  father.  A  Very  August  Personage  sent  a  tele- 
gram of  condolence,  and  from  friends  and  beneficiaries  in 
ever}'^  quarter  of  England  came  a  swelling  tribute  of  appreci- 
ation. 

Sir  Aylmer,  then,  had  been  at  least  as  well  known  in 
England  as  John  D.  Rockefeller  or  J.  P.  Morgan ;  his  munifi- 


RECOVERY  263 

cence  was  wider  spread  and  more  varied  than  Carnegie's ;  for 
fifteen  years  he  had  had  no  other  outlet  for  his  gigantic  in- 
come than  in  charity  or  the  endowment  of  learning;  among 
forty  millions  of  people  hardly  one  was  not  directly  or  in- 
directly, potentially  or  actually  in  his  debt.  And  they  knew 
it.  Strange  men  of  exalted  eminence  wrote  of  his  liberaHty 
and  disinterestedness.  "You  are,  no  doubt,  aware  that  I 
wished  to  recommend  him  for  a  peerage.  ..."  "It  is  a 
lasting  disappointment  that  his  health  never  permitted  him  to 
sit  for  his  portrait;  it  was  always  our  wish  to  hang  it  in 
the  Senate  House  to  commemorate  our  indebtedness  to 
him.  ..."  And  many  hundreds  of  letters  from  strange 
men  of  no  eminence  at  all  contained  a  single  reminiscence 
designed  to  add  one  stroke  to  the  picture  and  enrich  Deryk's 
knowledge  with  one  more  mite  of  information.  "I  was  only 
privileged  to  meet  your  father  once — in  '92  or  '93.  A 
banker  friend  gave  me  a  letter  of  introduction,  and  I  re- 
member several  most  interesting  conversations  in  New 
York.  Your  father  was  at  that  time  absorbed  in  the  ques- 
tion of  oil — transportation.   ..." 

In  the  first  forty-eight  hours,  when  Derj'k  was  still  in 
bed,  a  furtive  succession  of  reporters  had  tried  to  worm 
their  way  into  the  house  and  obtain  exclusive  "copy"  with- 
out too  openly  outraging  a  house  of  death.  Phillimore  and 
the  servants  found  themselves  at  all  hours  button-holed  by 
discreet,  whispering  men  with  professionally  grave  faces. 
Cameras  were  always  being  set  up,  advanced  and  with- 
drawn, and  Hatherly,  as  he  lovingly  perfected  "all  the 
grand  investiture  of  death,"  was  approached  with  requests 
for  leave  to  make  a  death-mask. 

For  the  most  part  Deryk  was  shielded  from  the  distress 
and  grim  ironies  of  the  time.  For  half  the  day  he  lay 
peacefully  enough  talking  to  Yolande ;  the  rest  of  the  time 
they  wandered  round  the  house  or  sat  in  the  library,  open- 
ing and  acknowledging  letters.  Physical  weakness,  the 
shock  and  break  in  his  life  had  filled  Der}^k  with  a  tranquil 
melancholy;  he  felt  that  he  had  confessed  and  been  given 
absolution,  that  the  future  was  his  own,  to  be  made  worthy 


264  MIDAS  AND  SON 

of  his  father,  as  he  now  saw  him,  and  of  all  his  own  aspir- 
ations. 

"I  shall  keep  his  rooms  exactly  as  they  were,"  he  told 
Yolande.  "They  were  really  the  only  ones  he  used,  and 
he'd  collected  all  his  favourite  books  and  papers  there. 
Come  in  and  look  at  them." 

He  went  ahead  and  pulled  up  the  blinds,  lighting  the 
room  for  the  first  time  since  his  father  had  died  there. 
Yolande  found  a  simplicity  and  homely  shabbiness  in  the 
carpet  and  furniture  from  long  and  continual  use.  The 
only  pictures  were  of  Deryk  and  his  mother,  the  square 
stone  house  on  Riverside  Drive,  the  steam  yacht  on  which 
they  had  cruised  to  the  Bahamas  and  the  South  Seas.  In 
the  book-case  she  found  a  number  of  albums  filled  with 
ephemeral  records  of  Deryk's  boyhood,  school  reports,  class 
lists  from  "The  Times,"  signed  menus  of  twenty-first- 
birthday  dinners,  the  passenger  list  of  the  "Moravia,"  which 
had  carried  him  out  to  India.  .  .  . 

"He  was  very  fond  of  you,"  she  whispered,  as  she  re- 
placed the  albums  and  slipped  her  arm  through  his. 

Deryk  was  looking  at  two  costly,  gilt-topped  volumes, 
still  in  their  wrappers.^  "The  Ilkley  Papers,  Selected  and 
Arranged  by  Deryk  Lancing."  There  was  a  note  inside 
from  the  publishers: 

"We  thank  you  for  your  favour  of  the  7th  instant,  en- 
closing cheque  for  one  pound  sixteen  shillings,  for  which 
our  receipt  is  attached.  We  venture  to  point  out  that  pub- 
,  lication  does  not  take  place  until  the  twenty-second  of  this 
month,  but,  as  we  assume  that  you  are  personally  interested 
in  the  books,  we  send  them,  as  requested  and  as  an  excep- 
tion to  our  general  practice.  W^e  shall,  however,  be  obliged, 
if  you  will  retain  the  volumes  in  your  own  possession  until 
publication  has  actually  taken  place." 

Deryk  crumpled  the  note  into  his  pocket  and  returned  the 
books  to  their  table. 

"There  was  such  an  awful  lot  that  I  wanted  to  tell  him," 
he  whispered.  "We  were  such  pals  in  the  old  days.  I  can 
just  remember  him  in  America,  before  he  broke  down, 


RECOVERY  265 

and  then  we  seemed  to  drift  apart  ...  I  got  rather  fright- 
ened of  him  .  .  .  And  this  place  seemed  to  make  him 
unnatural."  He  sighed  and  walked  with  her  to  the  door. 
"Do  you  remember  telling  me  on  the  night  of  our  ball 
that  I  wasn't  born  to  this  sort  of  thing?  You  spoke  as  if 
you  were  saying  something  frightfully  insulting,  but  I'd  felt 
it  for  years — whenever  I  bothered  to  think  about  it.  Enor- 
mous shooting  parties  to  people  he  didn't  care  about,  when 
he'd  never  shot  in  his  life  and  had  to  be  wheeled  about  his 
own  garden  in  a  chair.  A  racing  stable,  when  we  drove 
over  to  Larchpoint  solely  from  a  sense  of  duty  and  yawned 
all  through  the  meeting.  ...  I  could  never  make  out  what 
he  was  after.  If  he  was  on  the  make  socially,  like  that 
fellow  Erckmann,  he  could  have  had  peerages  and  privy 
councillorships  by  the  dozen,  but  he  refused  everything 
except  the  baronetcy.  It's  an  extraordinary  thing  not  to 
understand  your  own  father  in  the  very  least." 

That  afternoon  he  was  to  have  further  food  for  specu- 
lation, when  Hatherly  came  with  the  will  in  one  hand  and  a 
foolscap  summary  in  the  other.  Stripped  of  its  intermin- 
able provisions  and  qualifications,  the  will  was  simple  in 
essence.  Legacies  were  left  to  servants  and  friends,  a 
final  bequest  was  made  to  every  hospital  or  other  charitable 
body  on  Sir  Aylmer's  long  list,  Deryk  was  invited,  if  prac- 
ticable, to  continue  his  father's  donations,  and  the  residue 
of  the  estate  passed,  with  four  exceptions,  absolutely  and 
unconditionally  to  Deryk.  Hatherly,  in  some  embarrass- 
ment, undertook  to  explain  the  exceptions. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  worse  of  your  father,"  he  be- 
gan, industriously  polishing  his  glasses.  "You'll  find,  as 
you  grow  older,  that  in  essentials  men  are  very  similar. 
Before  he  married,  it  appears  from  what  he  has  told  me 
and  from  what  is  set  out  in  the  will  that  there  were  three 
or  four  women  to  whom  he  felt  himself  to  be  indebted.  I  be- 
lieve that  they  had  passed  entirely  out  of  his  life  and  that  he 
had  never  given  them  a  thought  until  a  month  or  two  ago. 
Then — I  don't  know, — I  Suppose  he  felt  uneasy;  he  didn't 
like  the  idea  that  any  of  them  might  be  in  want,  and  you 


266  MIDAS  AND  SON 

will  see  that  he  charges  the  executors  to  find  out  whether 
they  are  still  living  and,  if  so,  to  make  certain  allowances 
to  them.  I  cabled  out  to  New  York  as  soon  as  I  had  his" 
instructions  and,  when  I  get  a  reply,  I  will  do  whatever  is 
necessary.  I  daresay  you  would  prefer  to  leave  it  to  me. 
The  executors  are  you,  Raymond  Stornaway  and  myself." 

Deryk  nodded  his  assent  with  bowed  head.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  his  father,  too,  had  sealed  chapters  in 
his  life,  that,  before  he  consecrated  himself  to  his  wife 
and  her  memory,  he  had  passed  through  clandestine  amours, 
which  came  back  to  disturb  his  mind  twenty-five  or  thirty 
years  later.  What  was  likely  to  have  happened  to  the  wom- 
en? They  must  be  old  now — nearer  sixty  than  fifty;  some 
had  probably  died,  some  sunk  into  irreclaimable  abandon- 
ment, others,  perhaps,  settled  down  in  respectable  domes- 
ticity. Their  husbands  would  learn  from  the  thousand- 
tongued  American  press  that  Aylmer  Lancing  was  dead, 
and  perhaps  their  own  hearts  would  miss  half  a  beat 
through  fear,  regret  or  sentimentality.  It  had  never  oc- 
curred to  him,  either,  that  the  shifts  and  slips  of  youth  held 
the  germ  of  so  great  permanence.  A  liaison  should  belong 
to  careless,  uncalculating  springtime.  He  wondered  whether, 
forty  years  later,  he  and  Lucile  Welman  would  meet 
and  be  elaborately  introduced  by  other  old  men  and  women 
and  make  neutral  conversation  and  separate  to  their  own 
homes  and  their  own  thoughts.  He  wondered,  too,  whether 
his  sons  would  make  their  discoveries  when  they  came 
to  examine  his  will.  .  .  . 

"I  wonder  my  father  didn't  do  something  for  them  at 
the  time,"  he  murmured. 

"I  happen  to  know  he  did,"  Hatherly  answered.  "But 
it's  an  uncertain  world  with  plenty  of  ups  and  downs  in  it, 
and,  for  all  he  knew,  they  might  have  had  more  downs 
than  ups." 

As  Hatherly,  but  not  Deryk,  was  to  find  out  within  a 
week,  Sir  Aylmer  also  desired  to  protect  his  heir  and  the 
estate  from  unfounded  claims.    Two  days  after  the  funeral 


RECOVERY  267 

a  trim,  obstinate-mouthed  woman  of  fifty,  in  black  bonnet 
and  dress,  called  with  a  wealth  of  papers  and  represented 
herself  as  the  widow  of  the  deceased,  from  whom  she  had 
been  living  apart  for  thirty  years  by  arrangement  in  writing. 
She  demanded  to  see  Deryk,  but  departed  precipitately 
when  Hatherly  explained  himself  to  be  the  solicitor  to  the 
estate  and  asked  Benson  to  telephone  for  the  police. 

"It's  an  uncertain  world,"  Hatherly  repeated.  "One  of 
the  first  things  you'll  have  to  do  is  to  make  a  will  of  your 
own.  You're  in  the  position  of  having  no  heir-at-law.  If 
you  got  knocked  down  by  a  car  and  killed,  your  estate 
would  go  to  the  Crown.  You'll  have  to  think  carefully 
over  what  you  want  done." 

Deryk's  eyes  travelled  slowly  round  the  ofiice  until  they 
came  to  rest  on  the  high  mahogany  double  doors  which 
communicated  with  his  father's  study. 

"I  suppose  it's  always  open  to  a  man  to  refuse  what 
you  leave  him,"  he  said.  "Otherwise  I  think  I  should  look 
out  for  my  worst  enemy  and  make  him  my  heir.  It  didn't 
bring  much  happiness  to  the  guv'nor,  Hats,  all  this  place 
and  the  money  and  everything." 

"He  hadn't  the  health  to  enjoy  it,"  Hatherly  answered 
conventionally. 

"But,  now  that  I've  got  it,  what  can  I  do  with  it?  The 
average  man  can't  eat  more  than  one  dinner  a  night  or 
drink  more  than  one  bottle  of  even  the  most  expensive 
champagne  with  it.  You  can  collect  Corots,  I  suppose,  but, 
if  they're  for  sale,  you  can  buy  'em  all  in  a  week  or  two. 
I've  got  ever}'thing  I  want — clothes,  books,  pictures ;  and 
I  honestly  believe  I've  done  everything  I  want  to  do.  You 
can  rule  out  sport,  which  I  can't  stand  in  any  form;  I  like 
travelling  about  and  seeing  places,  but  you  and  I  have  seen 
pretty  well  every  place  we  ever  wanted  to  see."  Hands  in 
pockets  and  frowning,  he  stared  at  Hatherly  in  perplexity. 
"What  would  you  do  with  it  ?  I  shall  keep  on  the  guv'nor's 
charities  and  all  that,  and  they're  likely  to  increase  every 
year,  but  so's  my  income,  and  they're  only  a  flea-bite." 


268  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Hatherly  locked  the  will  in  his  safe  and  took  up  a  posi- 
tion in  front  of  the  fire. 

"You've  got  youth  and  health  on  your  side,"  he  began. 
"They  say  that  money  carries  great  power,  but  I've  known 
many  men  who've  had  money  and  very  few  who  could 
extract  power  from  it."  He  turned  and  helped  himself  to 
a  cigar  from  the  mantelpiece.  "This  reminds  me  very 
much  of  your  father's  way  of  speaking  five  and  twenty 
years  ago ;  he  said  quite  deliberately  that  ten  men  knew  how 
to  make  money  for  one  who  knew  how  to  spend  it.  Ray- 
mond Stornaway  always  said  that  he  was  the  one,  that  it 
was  a  natural  gift  with  him,  his  one  manifestation  of 
genius — and  that  he  never  had  the  opportunity.  Since  that 
time  he's  made  money  of  his  own  and  spent  it ;  and  he's 
spent  millions  of  other  people's  money.  Perhaps  he  was 
right;  /  certainly  should  have  no  idea  what  to  do  with  it. 
I've  not  got  imagination  enough  to  see  beyond  free  hos- 
pitals, public  libraries,  scholarships — the  ordinary  things." 

"Has  Stornaway?"  Deryk  asked.     "That's  all  he  does.'* 

"He  had  much  more  romantic  ideas  when  he  was  your 
age,"  Hatherly  answered.  "There  were  wonderful  schemes 
for  amelioration  of  working-class  conditions,  improvement 
in  health  and  education.  He  was  sincerely  convinced  that 
a  group  of  rich  men  could  dictate  the  internal  policy  of 
every  country,  the  diplomatic  relations  between  countries; 
that  they  could  create  their  own  parties  and  press  and  sup- 
porters; he  was  prepared  to  take  small  children  and  edu- 
cate them  in  his  own  doctrines  until  they  were  grown  men 
and  the  world  was  being  gradually  covered  by  'School- 
men' sent  out  by  Stornaway.  The  autocracy  of  wealth, 
in  other  words."  Hatherly  paused  to  laugh  softly  at  his 
memory  of  Raymond  in  the  days  of  his  most  turbulent  dis- 
putatiousness.  "Seriously,  Deryk,  why  don't  you  talk  to 
him?    He  had  a  great  influence  over  your  father." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  shan't  leave  the  whole  estate  to  him," 
Deryk  answered  with  a  smile.  "You  could  get  the  thing 
on  to  a  single  sheet  of  paper,  couldn't  you?" 


RECOVERY  269 

"But  what  if  Raymond  predeceased  you?  He's  a  gen- 
eration older." 

"Oh,  I  was  only  thinking  of  a  temporary  precaution,  in 
case  I  got  run  over,  as  you  suggest,"  Deryk  answered. 


On  the  day  after  the  funeral,  Yolande  went  as  usual 
into  Deryk's  room  to  bring  him  his  breakfast."  She  found 
him  lying  back  on  his  pillows,  silent  and  thoughtful,  with 
the  day's  letters  and  paper  unread  on  the  table  by  his  side ; 
in  his  hand  was  a  bulky  pile  of  manuscript  with  a  heavily 
sealed  envelope  on  top.  When  she  had  put  the  tray  on  his 
bed,  he  stared  at  it  for  some  moments  and  then  abruptly 
thrust  the  papers  towards  her,  telling  her  to  read  them. 

"It's  from  my  father,"  he  explained,  as  she  tried  to 
recognise  the  writing.  "I  want  to  know  what  you  think 
about  it." 

The  envelope  bore  the  words — "For  Deryk  Lancing. 
Only  to  be  opened  after  my  death."  The  letter  was  dated 
many  months  before,  but  the  alternation  of  ink  and  pencil, 
vigour  and  weakness  in  thought  and  expression  suggested 
that  Sir  Aylmer  had  spread  his  composition  over  a  long 
period.  At  one  time  his  mind  had  worked  so  well  that  the 
pen  had  raced ;  he  saw  clearly,  he  knew  what  he  wanted 
and  how  alone  it  could  be  said ;  at  another  his  brain  and 
fingers  fumbled.  There  was  a  blend  of  posturing  and  sin- 
cerity, as  he  recalled  that  he  had  an  attitude  to  maintain 
or  realised  that  his  last  pose  would  have  collapsed  before 
Deryk  came  to  read  the  letter;  and  the  language  was  at 
one  moment  pretentious  as  a  leading  article,  at  another 
familiar,  colloquial  and  unpolished, 

"My  dear  Deryk,"  it  began. 

"A  week  ago  Forsyte  made  up  his  mind  that  I  was  dying, 
and  at  my  request  Hatherly  went  to  London  to  tell  you  this 
and  to  represent  to  you  that  it  was  your  duty  to  come  im- 
mediately.    I  have  not  enquired  the  terms  of  your  reply 


270  MIDAS  AND  SON 

to  him,  but  you  did  not  come.  I  wish  you  to  understand 
that  nothing  in  this  letter  is  intended  as  a  reproach ;  and 
I  only  mention  the  facts  because  they  convinced  me  that 
no  ordinary  difference  of  opinion  could  be  keeping  us  apart 
at  such  a  time.  After  consideration  I  have  decided  that  no 
harm  can  be  done  by  my  v/riting  frankly  on  several  sub- 
jects which  we  have  hitherto  not  discussed;  I  do  not  ask 
or  expect  you  to  share  my  views  or  even  to  be  affected  by 
them,  and  therefore  the  opportunity  of  even  considering 
them  will  be  withheld  until  the  time  for  discussion  is  past. 
If  I  had  anything  to  retract  or  undo,  if  I  felt  that  I  had 
been  wrong  in  my  upbringing  of  you,  I  should  hasten  to 
admit  it  and  to  make  such  amends  as  lay  in  my  power.  It 
is  because  I  deliberately  abide  by  what  I  have  done,  how- 
ever unhappy  the  consequences,  that  I  think  you  should  at 
least  know  the  motives  of  my  actions;  you  can  only  guess 
at  them  now,  and  I  can  only  remind  myself  that  you  came 
home  after  two  years  abroad,  stayed  in  this  house  for  less 
than  a  week  and  went  away  again ;  these  are  the  facts,  and 
apart  from  them  I,  too,  can  only  guess.  It  has  been  sug- 
gested to  me  that  you  are  staying  away  until  I  make  a  settle- 
ment upon  you  ;  if  so,  you  have  never  given  this  as  a  reason ; 
it  has  been  suggested,  again,  that  you  were  influenced  by 
your  feelings  towards  Miss  Penrose ;  if  so,  I  can  only 
remind  you  that  they  were  never  given  as  a  reason. 

"Hatherly  has  told  you  that,  before  you  were  born,  a 
trust  was  erected  to  safeguard  you  from  some  at  least  of 
the  perils  to  which  the  possession  of  very  great  wealth 
would  expose  you.  Though  I  believe  you  unlikely  to  get 
into  trouble  by  reason  of  your  own  folly  or  natural  de- 
pravity, you  are  still  so  young  and  inexperienced  that,  until 
you  have  shewn  yourself  equal  to  the  burden,  I  see  no 
reason  to  relax  the  considered  precautions  which  I  have 
taken.  I  speak  regretfully  but  without  cynicism  when  I 
say  that  there  is  little  or  nothing  that  most  women  would 
not  do  in  order  to  be  your  wife ;  I  say  that  men  and  women 
alike  will  treat  you  differently  throughout  life  according  as 
they  do  or  do  not  know  who  you  are;  it  is  not  always 


RECOVERY  271 

intended,  but  they  cannot  help  it;  women  will  sincerely 
believe  themselves  to  be  in  love  with  you  and  would  as 
sincerely  discover  their  mistake  on  the  day  they  found  you 
penniless ;  you  have  ever  to  be  on  your  guard  against  an 
extra  surface  cordiality. 

"I  should  be  foolish  to  assay  how  much  any  one  woman 
would  be  influenced,  I  do  not  know  whether  you  ever  asked 
Miss  Penrose  to  marry  you,  but  I  have  decided  to  say  this 
before  dismissing  her  from  the  discussion.  Though  she 
would  never  have  given  you  the  stimulus  which  you  re- 
quire, though  her  world  was  a  different  world,  a  smaller 
world,  though  women — the  so-called  'adaptable  sex' — never 
rise  to  their  husbands'  rank  in  a  socially  unequal  marriage, 
she  was  personally  unexceptional,  and,  though  I  could  never 
regard  her  as  your  intellectual  equal  or  even  associate,  I 
should  not  have  opposed  your  union  when  once  I  was  satis- 
fied that  it  was  not  mere  youthful  infatuation.  But  I  should 
have  permitted  no  engagement  until  you  had  convinced 
yourselves  and  me  that  you  were  indispensable  to  each 
other.  You  may  think  that  that  is  for  you  to  decide,  but 
I  am  looking  beyond  a  single  lifetime. 

"I  made  a  gigantic  fortune  unexpectedly  in  a  strange 
country.  I  had  then  to  abandon  a  country  where  a  mil- 
lionaire is  absorbed  and  return  to  one  where  there  is  no 
millionaire-class  per  sc,  where,  too,  I  had  the  social  and 
professional  status  of  an  unsuccessful  barrister,  where  I 
had  shot  ahead  of  any  friends  I  may  ever  have  had. 
There  was  no  question  of  my  starting  again ;  my  life  was 
over.  But  I  had  to  determine  what  social  niche  you  were 
to  occupy,  what  was  to  be  your  career  and  what  use  was 
to  be  made  of  my  fortune.  The  third  question  is  unan- 
swered, the  second  you  will  have  to  answer  for  yourself — 
perhaps  you  are  answering  it  now ;  the  first  was  answered 
for  me  by  your  school  and  university — to  my  disappoint- 
ment and  misgiving  at  the  time,  for  they  had  failed  to  make 
anything  of  me,  and  I  returned  from  America  with  a  re- 
publican intolerance  of  the  English  governing  class,  which 
to  me  was  parasitic  and  meant  exclusiveness,  incompetence 


272  MIDAS  AND  SON 

and  unworthiness  of  aim.  To  you,  I  think,  that  is  all  that 
it  means  now,  but  you  will  have  to  outgrow  and  you  will 
outgrow  that  intolerant  superiority,  as  I  did.  I  was  analyt- 
ical and  contem.ptuous  as  you  are  of  men  like  Pebbleridge, 
who  hunt  four  days  a  week,  enjoy  hereditary  dignities, 
power  and  local  influence — and  are  nothing  as  men  or  rul- 
ers. It  was  one  of  my  nightmares  that  you  would  grow  up 
like  one  of  his  sons. 

"I  think  that  the  South  African  War  changed  that  feel- 
ing. My  despised  governing  class,  not  surrendering  to  war- 
fever,  not  thinking  of  war  as  a  glorified  polo,  not  looking 
for  decorations  or  promotion,  went  out  and,  as  to  many  of 
them,  never  came  back.  Pebbleridge  lost  two  sons,  and 
the  third  ran  away  from  school  and  was  shot  through  the 
lungs  a  month  after  landing.  So  there  is  now  no  heir  to 
the  title.  But  Pebbleridge  doesn't  complain:  they  had  to 
go :  South  Africa,  the  whole  empire,  is  only  Bishop's  Cross 
on  a  large  scale;  it's  their  estate  which  they  have  to  run — 
and  they  can't  tolerate  other  classes  claiming  to  run  it  for 
them  or  share  in  the  control.  Other  classes  no  doubt  made 
the  same  sacrifices,  but  I  had  not  singled  out  any  other 
class  for  facile  condemnation.  As  in  war,  so  in  peace.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  were  ever  at  home  when  Oak- 
leigh's  friend  Loring  came  down.  He  is  young,  able, 
rather  indolent,  with  a  liking  for  pleasure ;  but  he  was  in- 
defatigable in  the  House  of  Lords.  However  much  it 
irked  him,  his  career  was  the  public  service,  and  the  public 
service  was  his  career.  He  disliked  it,  I  daresay,  as  much 
as  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  disliked  it:  he  did  not  care  for 
any  phantom  sense  of  power  which  it  might  bring  him :  it 
was  his  job.  And,  if  the  sense  of  power  had  amused  him, 
that  is  only  to  say  that  an  unmixed  motive  is  the  symptom 
and  characteristic  of  fanaticism. 

"Now  that,  Deryk,  is  a  spirit  and  a  class  which  are  lack- 
ing in  America.  You  need  a  territorial  aristocracy  to  breed 
it ;  you  need  continuity,  tradition  and  the  trustee  sense  which 
you  find  in  an  Oxford  College  or  an  Inn  of  Court — the  sense 
that  you  hold  for  those  who  come  after  you  what  was  held 


RECOVERY  273 

for  you  by  those  who  went  before.  I  have  never  spent  a 
night  away  from  this  house  since  I  came  here,  so  that, 
though  the  Stornaways  and  my  neighbours  may  regard  me 
as  an  upstart,  I  feel  that  I  have  lived  here  until  the  spirit  of 
the  place  has  entered  into  my  soul.  I  would  rather  starve 
than  sell  this  place  as  Stornaway  sold  it  to  me.  It  is  the  sym- 
bol of  tradition,  of  inherited  service,  of  public  life.  I  hand  it 
on  to  you  for  you  to  enjoy  and  hand  on  to  your  son  ;  so  long 
as  it  remains  that  symbol,  you  will  not  betray  the  tradition. 
It  is  only  the  territorial  aristocracy  that  has  a  family  his- 
tory; other  classes  migrate,  marry,  scatter,  die — unrecorded 
and  without  leaving  a  trace  behind.  Who  cares  about  them 
whether  they  lead  honourable  lives  or  not?  They  are  un- 
known. But,  if  you  were  cited  as  a  co-respondent,  all 
England  would  discuss  it:  there  is  a  graver  responsibility 
attaching  to  you,  and  you  will  hesitate  until  you  have  de- 
cided that  your  position  forbids  you  to  trip.  You  have 
seen  or  read  of  scandals  in  this  class,  but  how  few  they 
are !  In  politics  two  men  of  my  time  were  involved  in  what 
would  pass  as  venial  in  any  other  country;  both  men  were 
broken. 

"I  have  told  you  that  I  came  to  admire  the  aristocracy 
of  this  country  for  the  very  reason  which  formerly  aroused 
my  contempt.  It  is  hereditary.  Now,  I  inherited  nothing — 
that  is  to  say,  nothing  but  arms  and  legs,  colouring,  physi- 
cal characteristics.  The  rest  of  me  was  made  by  myself, 
and  I  hand  it  on  to  you  and  your  children's  children.  You 
start  life  as  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  world  and  with 
every  day  that  goes  by  you  will  discover  more  of  the  power 
of  riches,  you  will  speculate  more  on  their  potentiality.  I 
do  not  profess  to  have  made  much  headway,  for  my  life 
came  to  an  end  as  I  tried  my  first  experiment.  In  addition 
to  money  you  inherit  brains — as  you  shewed  at  school,  and 
at  the  university — determination,  endurance — as  you  are 
shewing  now — and,  I  hope,  judgment.  I  have  brought  you 
up  in  the  society,  the  surroundings  and  the  atmosphere  of 
the  class  which  I  have  been  discussing.  You  are  scorn- 
fully aware  of  its  defects,  and  the  narrowness  of  its  life 


274  MIDAS  AND  SON 

is  irksome  to  you — (Confess  that  you  allow  yourself  to 
be  too  easily  bored.  And  agree  with  me  that  the  life  led  by 
anyone  else  always  is  narrow ;  a  Prime  Minister  goes  from 
Cabinet  to  House  and  from  House  back  to  Cabinet:  what 
a  life !  Resist  the  excess  of  analysis  and  logic :  the  world 
does  not  act  from  pure  reason,  nor  are  you  purely  reason- 
able yourself,  and  30U  do  not  wish  to  be  barrenly  'superior,* 
Deryk).  I  have  provided  the  home  and  the  material  means 
for  a  family  which,  so  far  as  human  prophecy  can  say,  will 
never  have  to  work  for  a  livelihood ;  you  and  your  children 
can  devote  yourselves  to  public  life  as  naturally,  as  in- 
evitably as  a  Cecil  or  Cavendish. 

"And,  Deryk,  though  you  are  academically  inclined  at 
present,  though  I  have  always  wanted  you  to  do  what  you 
could  best  do,  I  believe  and  hope  that  you  will  be  drawn 
into  government.  First  of  all,  you  will  discover,  as  I  did, 
the  fascination  of  controlling  people — (I,  the  unsuccessful 
barrister,  could  hold  people  up  so  that  they  could  not 
move  from  one  state  to  another;  I  determined  to  some 
extent  where  they  were  to  live,  and  how)  ;  then,  when  they 
are  at  your  mercy,  you  will  want  to  reform  them,  to  make 
them  happier — (All  this  reminds  me  so  strongly  of  Ray- 
mond Stornaway  when  he  was  your  age).  In  the  next 
place  you  will  be  driven  into  the  open  to  protect  your  own 
property  and  preserve  your  own  influence.  Of  course, 
when  once  you  are  in  the  open,  you  will  not  be  allowed 
to  go  back.  There  are  so  few  like  you,  Derj^k,  and  you 
are  so  badly  wanted ;  men  who  have  been  brought  up  like 
the  Cecils  in  an  atmosphere  of  politics  and  with  a  tradi- 
tion of  politics  behind  them,  men  who  look  upon  them- 
selves as  the  trustees  and  guardians  of  their  countrymen, 
men,  above  all,  who  can  afford  to  wait.  In  public  hfe  there 
is  no  greater  danger  than  a  poor  man ;  there  is  also  no 
stronger  man  than  the  man  who  can  wait  and,  if  need  be, 
resign  power,  even  withdraw  from  public  life  until  the 
tumult  and  the  shouting  die.  Consider  Hartington  refusing 
to  be  stampeded  by  Gladstone  over  Home  Rule  or  by 
Chamberlain  over  a  tariff;  in  either  case  he  thought  the 


RECOVERY  275 

policy  wrong  and  bad,  he  said  so,  he  left  the  government 
that  was  flirting  with  such  dangerous  stufif.  I  believe 
Chamberlain  thought  that  Home  Rule  would  not  pay  and 
that  a  tariff  would — pay  as  electoral  issues,  I  mean ;  origi- 
nally he  was  not  opposed  in  principle  to  the  first,  he  was 
to  the  second ;  he  had  gone  into  politics  late  in  life,  he  could 
not  afford  to  wait. 

"When  you  have  tasted  domestic  power,  you  will  not 
be  content  to  stop  short.  It  will  not  be  enough  to  control 
the  people  in  one  country  by  holding  up  supplies ;  that  will 
be  swamped  and  obliterated  when  tlie  people  of  that  coun- 
try are  thrown  into  conflict  with  other  peoples.  (You  have 
probably  been  discussing  this  with  George  Oakleigh ;  if  not, 
you  must.)  The  whole  world  is  at  the  mercy  of  a  few 
governments  working  secretly  and  committing  millions  of 
people  to  something  from  which  they  cannot  withdraw  and 
which  they  cannot  control.  You,  as  a  pawn  in  the  game, 
must  not  submit  to  that  (I  am  speaking  democratically  for 
the  moment)  ;  speaking  as  myself  or  in  your  place,  we  are 
too  considerable  to  be  ignored  or  upset  by  a  rival  political 
power.  As  I  see  it,  the  conflict  of  the  future — as  in  a 
sense  it  has  been  the  conflict  in  the  past — will  be  between 
organised  wealth  and  the  old  governing  machine ;  and  I 
forecast  that  the  units  of  wealth  will  draw  closer  and 
closer  together  as  their  interests  become  identified  and  as 
they  try  to  eliminate  competition  and  waste.  The  present 
process  of  amalgamation  will  increase  geometrically; 
America  is,  of  course,  far  ahead  of  this  country,  but  you 
may  live  to  see  all  banking  in  England  unified  in  a  single 
corporation  and  all  railways  similarly  unified,  as  already 
the  competing  lines  are  beginning  to  pool  their  traffic.  You 
can  see  the  shipping  lines,  east  and  west,  combining;  I 
have  no  doubt  that  the  mines  will  follow.  This  will  go  on, 
the  units  of  wealth  will  become  interlaced  (/  started  with 
a  strip  of  burnt  prairie  and  within  five  years  I  was  carry- 
ing my  own  grain  on  my  own  system;  I  could  not  help  it), 
the  mines,  the  ships,  the  railways  will  be  in  the  same  hands, 
and  the  number  of  hands  will  ever  diminish.    Then — these 


276  MIDAS  AND  SON 

prophecies  are  rash,  but  I  am  convinced  that  this  must  be 
the  natural  development  of  wealth — either  the  government 
of  the  world  will  be  administered  by  a  committee  of  rich 
men  who  feed,  clothe  and  carry  the  people  of  the  world, 
or  else  the  old  government  machine  will  assume  control  of 
this  financial  power,  on  the  ground  that  it  is  too  great  to 
be  outside  the  government.  Perhaps  it  will  come  to  the 
same  thing.  The  possession  of  wealth  and  the  control  of 
government  cannot  be  separated. 

'T  am  not  rash  enough  to  prophesy  how  soon  this  fusion 
will  be  effected;  nor  can  I  say  what  you  and  your  genera- 
tion will  be  able  to  do.  I  have  done  nothing  myself  beyond 
thinking  and  speculating.  You,  I  fancy,  have  not  yet  even 
begun  to  think.  That  is  why  I  have  written  this  letter. 
After  full  consideration  I  can  offer  no  advice,  but  I  do  not 
feel  that  the  letter  will  have  been  wasted,  if  I  make  you 
appreciate  the  power  which  I  have  put  in  your  hands  and 
the  position  in  which  I  have  placed  you  and  your  children. 
The  potentialities  are  more  tangible  than  if  you  were 
Prince  of  Wales  now  or  if  you  were  to  become  Prime 
Minister  in  thirty  years'  time.  This  is  not  grandilo- 
quence or  megalomania ;  I  know  what  I  have  done,  I  can 
guess  what  more  I  might  have  done,  if  I  had  enjoyed  full 
powers  during  the  last  fifteen  years  instead  of  sitting  help- 
lessly watching  you  and  wondering  what  you  would  become. 

"But,  Der}^k,  it  is  not  my  first  wish  that  you  should 
devote  yourself  to  the  pursuit  of  power :  I  am  merely 
indicating  your  opportunities.  My  first  wish  for  my  own 
and  only  son  is  that  he  should  be  happy.  You  wanted  to 
stay  in  England  two  years  ago  and  study  the  later  history 
of  Greece.  I  would  sooner  have  you  do  that,  I  would 
sooner  have  you  follow  any  other  worthy  aim  than  feel 
at  the  end  of  your  life  that  you  were  wasted.  This  dying 
is  an  interesting  business.  With  me  it  has  gone  on  for 
fifteen  years ;  save  at  the  very  beginning,  when  I  would 
gladly  have  ended  my  life,  I  have  not  wanted  to  die,  I  have 
pulled  myself  back  again  and  again  when  Forsyte  has 
given  me  up ;  I  do  not  want  to  die  now,  but  I  am  prepared, 


RECOVERY  277 

as  I  have  always  been,  I  want  to  stay  here  as  long  as  I 
can,  I  want  to  watch  you.  It  is  so  commonplace  and  yet 
so  incredible  that,  if  I  die  to-night,  the  world  which  seems 
a  part  of  me  will  go  on  to-morrow  as  before.  I  cannot 
appreciate  my  consciousness  suddenly  ceasing  to  register. 
And,  when  I  say  good-bye  to  you,  as  I  do  now,  I  cannot 
feel  that  it  is  the  last  good-bye.  Years  ago,  when  I  first 
went  to  America,  I  said  good-bye  to  Hatherly ;  I  never 
meant  to  come  back,  I  knew  that  I  should  never  see  him 
again,  and  yet  the  words  were  only  words.  So  now,  while 
we  are  both  alive,  I  cannot  feel  the  finality  which  the  words 
convey  to  my  head. 

"My  blessing  goes  with  you  always,  Deryk.  I  repeat  that 
I  see  no  need  to  modify  or  apologise  for  anything  I  have 
done :  I  should  behave  in  the  same  way  if  the  same  situa- 
tion presented  itself  to  me  to-morrow.  I  leave  untouched 
the  trust  that  I  deliberately  erected  for  your  protection, 
feeling,  as  I  do,  that,  though  you  are  shaping  well,  though 
I  am  getting  confidence  in  you,  you  are  still  too  young  and 
your  position  is  still  so  exposed  that  the  protection  cannot 
wisely  be  withdrawn. 

"Good-bye,  m.y  son. 

"Your  loving  father, 
"Aylmer  Lancing." 

Yolande  put  the  letter  back  in  its  wax-bespattered  en- 
velope and  looked  up  to  find  Deryk's  eyes  upon  her. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  want  weeks  to  think  about  this!"  she 
exclaimed. 

Deryk  looked  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window. 

"He  must  have  wanted  me  pretty  badly  at  the  end,"  he 
murmured,  "when  he  did  upset  the  trust."  Then  his  hands 
went  up  and  covered  his  face.  "My  God!  Yolande,  there 
was  so  much  I  wanted  to  tell  him !" 

5 
As  soon  as  Deryk  was  well  enough  to  get  up  and  go  to 
bed  at  normal  hours,  Yolande  announced  that  she  must 
return  to  London  and  complete  the  arrangements  for  her 


278  MIDAS  AND  SON 

marriage.  The  date  on  which  she  had  fixed  in  her  own 
mind  had  been  postponed,  but  Deryk  did  not  guess  this, 
and  she  said  no  more  than  that  the  wedding  would  take 
place  very  quietly  in  the  new  year.  They  were  then  going 
to  live  for  a  few  weeks  in  Chelsea,  while  Felix  completed 
and  delivered  his  first  course  of  lectures;  as  soon  as  the 
spring  had  made  Hellenopolis  tolerable  for  a  woman  who 
had  never  experienced  the  rigours  of  its  wind-swept  winter, 
she  was  to  accompany  him  there  and  stay  till  the  end  of 
the  summer. 

On  her  last  evening  at  Ripley  Court  Deryk  left  Hatherly 
to  smoke  and  slumber  in  the  dining-room  while  he  carried 
her  away  to  the  library  and  hesitatingly  thanked  her  for 
coming  to  look  after  him. 

"But  you  know  I  v/as  always  very  fond  of  you!"  she 
laughed. 

"Yes,  but  it's  rather  dififerent  when  you're  just  going  to 
be  married.  In  Felix's  place  I  should  have  objected  rather 
violently." 

"He's  never  violent,  but  he  did  object,"  Yolande  con- 
fessed. "However,  I  told  him  I'd  known  you  much  longer 
than  him.  Deryk,  I  know  it's  a  tiresome  question,  but  what 
are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself  now?" 

There  was  no  answer  for  some  moments.  Deryk  sat 
looking  into  the  fire  and  thinking  how  wonderfully  empty 
the  house  would  seem  without  Yolande.  He  would  have  to 
spend  some  months  working  daily  to  learn  from  Hatherly 
the  outline  of  his  own  business  affairs ;  and,  when  he  was 
qualified  to  deal  with  them,  he  would  have  to  be  at  hand 
for  a  few  hours  each  day  to  see  that  the  machine  ran 
smoothly.  This,  indeed,  he  would  have  to  do  all  his  life, 
even  if  he  never  set  himself  to  solve  the  larger  problem 
which  had  baffled  his  father.  Hatherly  would  come  to  do 
less  and  less ;  ultimately  he  would  do  nothing  at  all ;  he  was 
growing  elderly  and  had  only  surrendered  himself  out  of 
friendship  to  Sir  Aylmer;  in  three  or  six  months  he  might 
well  ask  to  be  relieved  of  his  duties.  Then  the  great  house 
with  its  enveloping  silence,  which  was  outraged  by  a  burn- 


RECOVERY  279 

ing  coal  falling  from  the  grate,  would  be  Deryk's  alone. 
Phillimore,  growing  drowsier  each  day,  would  keep  his 
books  and  file  his  letters ;  Benson  with  his  professional 
cheerfulness  and  his  wife  with  her  comfortable  maternal 
attitude  and  diction  would  stay  on  for  a  time  until  he  had 
settled  down,  but  they,  too,  wanted  to  retire;  the  younger 
servants  would  leave,  half  a  dozen  at  a  time,  as  they  had 
come.  And  another  half  dozen,  equally  unknown  to  him, 
would  take  their  place.  He  could  always  fill  the  house,  of 
course;  his  friends  were  without  number,  they  liked  him, 
they  enjoyed  coming,  a  week-end  at  Ripley  Court  was  a 
coveted  privilege.  Or  so  they  said;  his  father's  letter  had 
warned  him  to  discount  even  the  most  disinterested  smile 
of  friendliness.  .  .  . 

"You  talked  about  my  coming  out  with  you  and  Felix," 
he  said  at  length. 

"Would  you  be  able  to  get  away?"  Yolande  asked.  "I 
suggested  it  when  your  father  was  alive,  of  course.  Would 
it  really  interest  you,  Deryk?  Felix  says  it's  frightfully 
rough  and  you  have  to  be  full  of  enthusiasm  to  put  up 
with  it." 

Deryk  rose  and  fetched  her  a  copy  of  the  essay  with 
which  he  had  won  the  Cresswell  Prize  four  years  earlier — 
"Trade  Routes  of  the  Mediterranean  Littoral  from  Alex- 
ander to  Constantine." 

"If  that's  not  enthusiasm,  what  is?"  he  demanded  with 
a  laugh.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  chair  by  the  fire,  gaz- 
ing into  it  and  shielding  his  face  with  one  hand.  "As  you 
know,  I  wanted  to  devote  my  whole  life  to  this  kind  of 
thing.  You  see,  I  always  think  that  Athens  between  the 
Persian  and  Peloponnesian  Wars  reached  a  relatively 
higher  standard  of  civilisation  than  has  ever  been  known 
before  or  since.  It  bloomed  more  tropically,  I  mean.  Well, 
I  always  wanted  to  know  more  than  the  books  told  me.  I 
wanted  to  know " 

He  talked,  more  to  himself  than  to  her,  for  half  an  hour, 
pulling  himself  up  at  last  with  a  self-conscious  apology. 

"I  don't  mind  how  long  you  go  on  in  that  line,"  she 


28o  MIDAS  AND  SON 

reassured  him.  "Well,  are  you  going  on  where  you  left 
off  when  you  came  down  from  Oxford?" 

Deryk  shivered  and  came  out  of  his  dreams. 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  so  infernally  restless.  I  like  talking 
about  it,  but  I  don't  at  all  know  that  I'm  keen  to  settle 
down  in  harness  again." 

Yolande  shook  her  head  gravely. 

"If  you  don't,  Deryk- 


«i 


*I  know.  I'm  honestly  going  to  try;  I  think  it's  what 
the  guv'nor  would  have  liked,  but  I  get  so  tired  of  things !" 
He  laughed,  and  there  was  little  but  impatience  in  the 
laugh.  "I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  not  really  coming  with  you 
because  I'm  afraid  of  being  left  alone  here  with  nothing 
to  do." 

"But  you've  got  more  to  do  than  you'll  ever  get  into 
one  life.  Surely  you  see  that  ?  Even  without  your  father's 
letter." 

"But  how  am  I  to  start?"  he  demanded  almost  queru- 
lously. 

"Go  and  talk  to  uncle  Raymond." 

"I'm  going  to,  you  may  be  quite  sure.  Yolande,  what 
did  you  think  of  that  letter?" 

She  looked  long  into  the  glowing  fire  before  answering, 
and,  when  she  spoke,  it  could  be  seen  that  she  was  sorting 
her  ideas. 

"I  disagreed  with  most  of  it,"  she  began,  "because  he 
was  trying  to  force  biology  into  a  channel  of  his  own,  and 
you  can't  do  it.  But  I  agree  that  you're  morally  com- 
mitted to  a  life  of  public  service.  Not  for  his  reasons, 
though."  She  hesitated  again.  "You  both  of  you  seem 
to  miss  one  very  important  thing,  and  that  is  that  you're 
in  debt  to  the  rest  of  the  world  and  that  you've  got  to  pay 
your  debt.  Sir  Aylmer  began  to  make  money  by  being 
clever  enough  to  get  hold  of  something  that  other  people 
thought  valueless.  Well,  he  has  been  paid  for  his  clever- 
ness, but  you're  not  entitled  to  go  on  making  other  people 
pay  you.  You  didn't  invent  anything  or  make  anything; 
you  just  bought  cheaply  something  that  other  people  wanted 


RECOVERY  281 

so  badly  that  you  could  make  them  pay  you  any  price  you 
liked.  And,  following  on  that,  you,  who  had  got  the  money, 
made  comers  in  dozens  of  things  that  other  people  had  to 
have.  Well,  you're  entitled  to  be  paid  for  your  enter- 
prise and  your  organisation,  but  you've  been  paid  for  that 
already,  and  the  rest  ought  to  go  back  for  the  good  of 
your  fellows.  I'm  not  singling  you  out,  of  course;  the 
people  who  own  land  where  a  city  wants  to  spread  itself 
are  in  exactly  the  same  position.  So,  you  see,  that's  where 
I  go  farther  than  Sir  Aylmer  or  you;  you've  no  right  to 
the  money,  you've  got  to  get  rid  of  it." 

Deryk  nodded  slowly. 

"Well,  if  I  accept  all  that,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want  it,  I 
shouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  it,  if  I  kept  it.  The  ques- 
tion is,  how  am  I  to  get  rid  of  it?" 

"Talk  to  uncle  Raymond,"  she  counselled  him  again. 

A  few  days  later  Deryk  did  in  fact  invite  Raymond 
Stornaway  to  dine  with  him  alone  and  talk  business.  He 
explained  lengthily,  without  interruption,  encouragement 
or  dissent;  the  result  was  to  be  profoundly  unsatisfactory. 

"Tell  me  exactly  what  you  want  to  do,"  Raymond  said 
at  the  end,  "and  I'll  tell  you  if  I  can  help  you  to  do  it." 

Deryk  placed  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  recapitulated 
his  explanation. 

"Well,  sir,  I've  got  an  income  that  I  couldn't  spend  if  I 
wanted  to.  You  always  hear  of  other  people  not  being  able 
to  do  things  because  they  haven't  the  money;  here's  the 
money.    How  am  I  to  use  it  ?" 

Raymond  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"What  do  you  want  to  dof"  he  asked  again.  "Do  you 
mean  to  provide  free  opera  houses  for  the  poorer  classes? 
That's  an  unexceptionable  ambition,  but  perhaps  you  agree 
with  me  that  very  few  things  are  worth  having — or  appre- 
ciated, when  you've  got  them — unless  you  have  to  make 
some  sort  of  struggle  to  get  them.  Or  you  can  provide 
free  meals  for  the  poor,  which  I  don't  recommend.  What 
do  you  wmitf" 

"I  don't  know,"  Dery^k  answered. 


282  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Then  you're  going  to  have  such  an  education  as  comes 
to  few  men,"  Raymond  answered  cheerfully.  "I  know 
what  /  want,  but  I've  thought  it  out  painfully  over  a  course 
of  years,  and  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you.  You've  got  to  think 
it  out  for  yourself.  It  won't  make  a  great  deal  of  differ- 
ence to  mankind  or  even  the  Lancing  Trust  Corporation 
if  you  spend  ten  or  twenty  years  experimenting  and  learn- 
ing. And  then  you'll  be  in  a  position  to  pay  for  your 
fancies.  I'll  discuss  projects  with  you  any  time,  but  I'm 
not  going  to  save  you  the  trouble  of  taking  a  great  oppor- 
tunity." 

Deryk  sipped  his  wine  thoughtfully  and  looked  across 
at  the  kindly,  bantering  face  opposite  him. 

"George  Oakleigh  introduced  me  the  other  night  to  a 
friend  of  his  called  David  O'Rane,"  he  said.  "His  great 
ambition  seems  to  be  to  rescue  prostitutes  and  get  the 
Congo  away  from  the  Belgians.  I  suppose  I'm  hardly  rich 
enough  for  that." 

"I  don't  know  any  man  who  is,"  Raymond  answered. 
"You  don't  abolish  cruelty  to  women,  children,  animals  or 
native  races  by  that  means.  And  I  take  it  that  your  friend 
wants  to  abolish  inhumanity  rather  than  to  rescue  a  few 
hundred  thousand  people  who  are  suffering  from  its  effects. 
Strike  deeper,  my  boy." 

Deryk  shrugged  his  shoulders  uncertainly. 

"You  can  educate  them,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

"They've  been  brought  up  on  the  milk  of  Christianity 
for  two  thousand  years.  Europe — Germany — was  a  Chris- 
tian country  throughout  all  the  dark  infamies  of  the  Palat- 
inate War ;  it  needn't  humanise  men  much.  I  don't  want 
to  hurt  your  feelings  in  any  way,  I  don't  know  anything 
about  your  religious  susceptibilities " 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  in  anything,"  Deryk  interrupted 
lightly.  "But  would  you  say  that  Christianity  has  never 
affected  the  ordinary  lives  of  men?  The  early  martyrs, 
the  ascetics,  the  Crusaders,  if  you  like " 

Raymond's  eyes  gleamed  hopefully,  as  he  shook  his  head. 

"It  was  an  influential  belief  then,"  he  said.     "Just  as 


RECOVERY  283 

Mohammedanism  is  now.  And  for  the  same  reason — be- 
cause it  was  run  on  a  paying  basis.  The  paid,  professing 
clergy  would  never  agree,  but  I  claim  that  Christianity 
ceased  to  be  effective  when  a  man  ceased  to  think  that  his 
sins  would  be  visited  on  his  head  in  a  material  hell ;  when 
he  ceased  to  fear,  in  other  words.  Fear's  far  more  potent 
than  love.  The  decline  started  early,  because  the  Church 
based  itself  on  its  power  as  a  mediator  and  interpreter; 
what  killed  Christianity  was  the  Church ;  you  cannot  keep 
men  in  the  belief  that  they  will  expiate  their  sins  in  pools 
of  liquid  fire,  if  anyone — the  Redeemer  himself,  let  alone 
his  vicars — have  power  of  absolution  and  dispensation. 
The  Church  made  hell  a  put-up  job,  and  the  martyrs  wilted. 
But,  if  you  could  make  it  a  real  thing  once  more,  if  you 
could  persuade  people  of  hell  as  convincingly  as  a  Moham- 
medan can  be  made  to  believe  that  he  passes  straight  to 
Paradise,  if  he  dies  on  behalf  of  the  True  Faith !"    s 

Raymond  left  the  sentence  unfinished  and  threw  his 
hands  into  the  air.  Deryk  would  only  shake  his  head  and 
push  back  his  chair. 

"Shall  we  go  upstairs?"  he  suggested.  "You  won't  get 
people  to  believe  that  nowadays,  sir.  And  it  would  be  the 
greatest  possible  set-back  to  human  progress,  if  you  could." 

"I  have  seen  enough  of  human  progress  to  notice  some 
of  its  shortcomings,"  Raymond  commented  drily.  "Leave 
that  out,  though.     Why  would  it  be  a  set-back?" 

Deryk  swept  his  arm  round  in  a  half-circle. 

"Doctrines  apart,  you  would  be  enslaving  the  mind  of 
the  world  to  a  new  pope,"  he  declared. 

Raymond  laid  one  hand  earnestly  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"But  /  should  be  the  new  pope,"  he  explained. 

There  was  a  laugh  of  grudging  concession. 

"I  thought  you  meant  it  seriously,"  said  Deryk. 

"I  do.  I  tell  you,  as  I  told  your  father  years  before  you 
were  born,  that  I  wanted  to  make  mankind  believe  as  I 
believe.  I  could  do  it,  too;  I  could  start  doing  it  to-mor- 
row, if  I  had  the  money.  It  would  take  some  years,  per- 
haps some  generations,  but  against  modern   skepticism  I 


284  MIDAS  AND  SON 

would  set  modern  methods  of  publicity.  I  tell  you  in  all 
seriousness  that  I  would  undertake  to  convert  the  whole 
world  to  my  doctrines — they're  essentially  reasonable  doc- 
trines— within  a  century,  if  I  had  the  money." 

They  had  reached  the  smoking-room,  and  Deryk  looked 
about  for  two  empty  chairs. 

"What  are  the  doctrines?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  not  going  to  help  you  any  more  at  present,"  Ray- 
mond answered.  "What  would  you  do,  if  you  wanted  to 
humanise  the  world?" 

Once  more  Deryk  shrugged  his  shoulders  helplessly. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  '*I  asked  the  question  because 
I  shan't  be  here  to  see  it  carried  out.  When  I  go  out  to 
Asia  Minor  with  Felix  and  Yolande,  I  propose  to  provide 
against  accidents  by  making  a  will  and  leaving  everything 
to  you  to  do  exactly  what  you  like  with.  If  I  outlive  you, 
of  course  you  won't  get  the  money — or,  if  I  marry,  for 
that  matter;  and,  if  you  outlive  me,  equally  I  shan't  see 
you  getting  to  work."  He  stopped  to  laugh  at  Raymond's 
expression  of  surprise.  "I'm  quite  serious,  sir.  I  haven't 
yet  even  begun  to  know  what  to  do  with  the  money,  I've 
never  met  anyone  who  did  or  could  even  offer  a  new  sug- 
gestion. But  everyone  tells  me  that  you'd  have  no  diffi- 
culty; you  tell  me  so  yourself,  and  I  accept  your  word. 
I  think  it's  only  fair,  though,  that,  if  I  pool  the  money, 
you  should  pool  the  ideas." 

Raymond  looked  closely  at  him. 

"Could  you  carry  them  out?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  what  they  are." 

"Would  you  try?" 

Deryk  laughed  and  refused  to  commit  himself. 

"I  attach  no  conditions  to  the  money,"  he  pointed  out. 
"You  ought  to  be  equally  generous  with  the  scheme.  Then 
I  could  go  away  with  an  easy  conscience  and  stay  abroad 
as  long  as  I  liked.  On  my  honour  I've  told  Hatherly  to 
get  to  work  on  the  will." 

"If  it's  true,  you're  an  idle  young  scamp,"  said  Raymond. 
"If  it's  not  true,  you're  a  disrespectful  young  scamp.    Order 


RECOVERY  285 

me  some  coffee,  or  I'll  never  come  and  dine  with  you 
again." 

That  night  he  wrote  to  his  niece,  "I  like  your  young 
friend;  he  improves  on  acquaintance,  but  he's  extraordi- 
narily helpless  and  alone.  Bones  a  bit  soft,  too;  and  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  to  learn  that  he'd  grown  too  fast 
or  that  all  his  strength  had  gone  to  his  brain.  He's  neu- 
rotic, but  I  don't  suppose  his  dear  ruffian  of  a  father  could 
be  expected  to  have  a  normal,  healthy  son.  He's  astonish- 
ingly young,  of  course.  .  .  ." 

At  the  beginning  of  the  new  year  Yolande  and  Felix 
were  prosaically  married  in  London;  Deryk  lent  them 
Ripley  Court  for  their  honeymoon  and  came  up  to  town 
on  business  until  its  end.  One  item,  as  he  had  warned 
Raymond,  was  the  new  will,  and  it  was  signed  at  the 
end  of  January.  A  month  later,  all  three  of  them  left 
England  for  Trieste  and  an  Austrian  Lloyd  island  steamer 
for  Hellenopolis. 


CHAPTER  VI 


SI    JEUNESSE    POUVAIT 


"The   disappointment   of   manhood    succeeds   to   the    delusion   of 
youth :  let  us  hope  that  the  heritage  of  old  age  is  not  despair." 

Disraeli:  Vivian  Grey. 


Standing  on  deck  and  watching  the  English  coastline 
contract,  fade  and  finally  merge  in  an  indeterminate  haze 
between  sea  and  sky,  Deryk  calculated  that  almost  exactly 
a  year  had  passed  since  he  and  Hatherly  stood,  braced 
against  the  wind,  watching  an  indeterminate  haze  between 
sea  and  sky  looming,  defining  and  growing  until  it  finally 
leapt  into  focus  as  the  English  coastline.  The  time  seemed 
longer,  more  than  a  year's  activity  had  been  crowded  into 
the  twelve  months ;  assuredly  he  was  more  than  a  year 
older.  As  the  very  haze  melted  from  view,  he  turned  to 
watch  for  the  French  coast,  wondering  how  long  he  was 
to  be  away  and  what  would  await  him  on  his  return.  He 
was  glad  to  be  escaping  into  comparative  solitude,  where 
he  would  be  able  to  think,  able  to  rest  his  dancing  nerves, 
able  to  win  back  the  habit  of  work  and  the  old  critical  joy 
in  making  the  work  fine. 

When  he  joined  Yolande  and  Felix  at  Charing  Cross,  he 
had  been  sufficiently  nervous  and  excited  to  make  both 
wonder  whether  a  second  collapse  was  preparing.  He 
would  only  say  that  he  had  been  kept  rather  too  busy 
"clearing  up  odds  and  ends,"  but,  while  the  train  waited  in 
the  station  and  the  scattered  groups  by  the  doors  coalesced 
into  a  long,  unbroken  line,  his  eyes  were  restlessly  search- 
ing the  crowd,  as  though  he  expected  each  newcomer  to  be 
looking  for  him.     As  the  train  began  to  move  away,  he 

286 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  287 

wrapped  a  rug  round  his  knees  and  settled  peacefully 
•enough  to  his  papers ;  at  Dover  a  telegraph  boy  was  stand- 
ing by  the  gangway,  repeating  "Sir  Deryk  Lancing"  to 
every  male  passenger.  Yolande  saw  him  take  the  envelope 
with  an  air  of  reluctant  obligation ;  she  also  saw  him  crump- 
ling it  unopened  into  a  tight  ball  and  tossing  it  over  the 
side  of  the  steamer.     Their  eyes  met,  and  Deryk  blushed. 

"I  believe  it's  going  to  be  a  rough  crossing,"  she  said 
with  hastily  assumed  apprehension. 

Deryk  wondered,  as  he  had  never  ceased  wondering  since 
his  breakdown,  how  much  Yolande  knew  or  suspected, 
above  all  whether  he  had  let  any  names  pass  his  lips  in  the 
endless  nights,  when  he  never  knew  if  he  was  awake  or 
dreaming. 

He  had  hardly  returned  to  his  rooms  in  London,  after 
leaving  Ripley  Court  to  Felix  and  his  wife,  before  Lucile 
Welman  called  upon  him.  Professionally  sensitive  to 
psychological  atmosphere,  she  had  whispered  a  phrase  of 
sympathy  on  his  loss  and  quickly  withdrawn.  Two  days 
later  she  invited  him  to  dine  with  her  "quite  quietly" ;  three 
days  after  that  she  called  again.  Deryk  was  reduced  to 
instructing  his  landlord  to  say  that  he  was  out,  when  next 
she  called ;  he  cut  short  telephone  conversations  with  prompt 
resolution,  when  she  begged  him  to  come  and  advise  her, 
as  she  was  in  trouble ;  when  she  wrote,  he  began  by  leaving 
the  letters  unanswered  and  left  them  later  unread.  The 
honeymoon  was  over,  he  was  making  his  last  arrangements 
and  buying  his  last  clothes,  when  they  met  unexpectedly 
in  Bond  Street.  Her  foot  was  on  the  step  of  her  car,  and 
she  almost  dragged  him  inside  and  told  her  chauffeur  to 
drive  through  the  Park  and  home. 

"I  should  never  have  thought  you  naturally  cruel,"  she 
began  invitingly.  "Of  course,  I  know  now  that  you  never, 
never  cared  for  me,  but  there  are  ways  of  breaking  it. 
When  one  writes  and  gets  no  answer " 

"Did  you  invite  me  to  drive  with  you  for  the  sake  of 
telling  me  this?"  Deryk  interrupted  wearily. 

"You  don't  seem  to  know  it  yourself."    She  covered  her 


288  MIDAS  AND  SON 

cheeks  with  her  hands,  looking  at  him  tragically  over  her 
finger-tips.  "My  God,  I  wonder  if  you  can  possibly,  pos- 
sibly conceive  what  I've  been  through!  Why  did  you  do 
it,  Deryk?" 

"Why  did  I  do  what?" 

"Why  did  you  kick  me  away  like  a  mongrel  cur?  I 
know  you  had  to  go  away,  I  called  to  say  how  sorry  I  was. 
But  when  you  were  back,  when  I  begged  you  to  see 
me 

Deryk  leaned  across  her  and  pulled  up  the  window. 

"As  I  don't  feel  that  your  chauffeur  can  help,"  he  said, 
"I  see  no  reason  for  making  him  a  party  to  the  discussion. 
There  were  several  reasons ;  the  one  I  propose  to  give  you 
is  tliat  I'm  leaving  England  in  a  week  or  two  and  conse- 
quently I've  been  very  busy.  If  it's  any  consolation,  I've 
seen  no  one." 

She  turned  on  him  with  primitive  possessiveness. 

"Where  are  you  going  to?"  she  demanded. 

"Asia  Minor.    I  shall  be  away  some  months." 

"And  you  never  told  me  ?" 

Her  attitude  of  injury  and  outraged  dignity  seemed  to 
Deryk  forced  and  theatrical.  He  only  wanted  to  escape 
from  the  car;  she  had  mounted  on  to  a  plane  of  emotion 
where  he  could  not  follow  her,  even  if  he  wanted  to. 

"It  was  in  the  papers,  I  believe,"  he  told  her  shortly. 

"I  don't  expect  to  have  to  look  in  the  papers  to  see  when 
you're  tired  of  me." 

Deryk  affected  a  drawl  of  indifference  to  hide  his  rising 
impatience. 

"Surely  our  intimacy  ended  some  time  ago,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

She  turned  away  to  conceal  her  face  from  him. 

"You  can  say  that — to  me!"  she  cried. 

"If  I  said  anything  else,  you  might  like  it  less,"  he  warned 
her. 

"I  couldn't." 

"I  might  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  Lucile,"  he  answered. 
"As  it  is,  I  see  no  point  in  recriminations.    Don't  reproach 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  289 

me,  and  I  won't  reproach  you.  I  think  I  shall  get  out  here. 
Let's  say  good-bye  with  a  good  grace." 

His  hand  was  stretching  out  to  the  indicator,  but  she 
gripped  his  wrist  and  brought  him  back. 

"I  won't  let  you  go,"  she  whispered  fiercely.  "You're 
everything,  everything  in  the  world  to  me,  I  can't  get  on 
without  you."  The  savage  yearning  died  out  of  her  voice, 
and  she  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips.  "Oh, 
Deryk,  you  do  still  love  me !    Say  you  love  me !" 

An  almost  imperceptible  lisp  had  come  into  her  speech, 
and  she  was  eliding  the  y  of  "you."  The  artifice,  and  the 
fact  that  he  recognised  it  to  be  an  artifice,  swept  away  all 
his  affectation  of  indifference  and  left  him  starkly  hating  her 
until  he  only  wanted  the  glowing  satisfaction  of  hurting  her. 
He  opened  his  mouth  to  remind  her  of  their  proximity  at 
the  Albert  Hall,  but  a  new  moderation  restrained  and  told 
him  that  he  would  afterwards  regret  any  outward  harsh- 
ness. 

"There  will  never  be  any  lack  of  men  to  tell  you  that," 
he  answered. 

"I  gave  you  everything,  and  now  you  throw  it  back  in  my 
face.     I  risked  ever}^thing " 

"We  shall  do  no  good  by  going  over  all  this  again.  I  will 
get  out,  Lucile." 

There  was  a  moment's  struggle,  but  this  time  he  reached 
the  indicator  and  turned  it  until  the  car  slowed  down  and 
stopped.  When  it  was  too  late  he  discovered  that  he  was 
getting  out  almost  half  a  mile  from  the  nearest  gate  at 
perhaps  the  most  inexplicable  and  least  plausible  part  of 
the  Park.  As  the  chauffeur  clambered  round  to  open  the 
door,  she  found  time  to  say,  "You  shan't  go !  I  tell  you,  I 
won't  let  you  go" ;  then  her  voice  became  decorous  and 
conventional  in  the  man's  hearing. 

"  'Fraid  I  must  get  out  here,"  said  Deryk  elaborately. 
"Mustn't  be  late,  you  know.    Good-bye." 

From  that  day  he  had  not  seen  her,  and  the  uncertainty 
whether  she  was  taking  him  at  his  word  or  preparing  to 
launch  another  attack  haunted  him  until  the  moment  when 


290  MIDAS  AND  SON 

the  train  gathered  speed  and  sHd  away  from  Charing  Cross. 
Then  something  told  him  instinctively  that  he  had  won, 
that  no  fresh  attack  would  be  launched,  even  when  he  re- 
turned to  England,  and  that,  if  it  were,  he  could  repel  it 
without  difficulty.  Lucile  Welman  had  gone  out  of  his  life 
unregretted,  as  she  had  come  into  it  undesired;  but  he  felt 
that  she  had  taken  something  with  her  that  he  could  never 
win  back.  His  idealising  reverence  for  women,  artificially 
fostered  through  a  lonely  and  shy  boyhood,  was  gone;  his 
very  interest  in  them  was  dwindling  out  of  recognition;  he 
knew  all  that  he  wanted  about  women.  .  .  . 

The  steamer  made  Anactis  one  night  at  eleven  o'clock, 
and  the  party  gathered  itself  and  a  formidable  equipment 
into  the  single  modest  hotel.  The  caravan  was  under  way 
by  noon,  and,  after  an  interval  for  dinner  and  two  more 
hours'  ride  in  the  moonlight,  Felix  led  them  to  a  flat  ex- 
panse at  the  very  foot  of  the  mountains.  For  half  a  mile 
each  way  they  saw  that  the  surface  had  been  broken  into 
blue-grey  ghostly  dunes :  in  the  streets  laid  bare  and  in  the 
unrevealing  flat  turf  under  their  feet  lay  all  that  remained 
of  a  city  where  once  at  such  a  time  the  night  had  resounded 
with  the  echo  of  footsteps  and  voices  raised  in  altercation 
or  laughter. 

"Th-this  is  Hellenopolis,"  said  Felix.  "D'you  re-recog- 
nise it,  Yolande,  from  my  description  on  the  Terrace?" 

They  reined  in  their  mules  and  sat  gazing  at  the  expanse 
of  silver  stillness.  To  their  left  clustered  a  dozen  wooden 
shanties,  and,  as  they  looked,  a  man  in  blouse  and  loose 
trousers  stamped  out  the  fire,  stared  at  them  and  came  for- 
ward. "L-Luigi,  my  foreman,"  explained  Felix.  To  the 
right  were  two  bungalows,  joined  by  a  primxitive  veranda 
and  containing  three  rooms  in  all.  Ahead  of  them,  after 
the  flat  tombstone  which  had  lain  for  five  centuries  over 
Hellenopolis  a  bare,  rocky  mountain  towered  above  them, 
rising  with  startling  suddenness.  The  smooth  blackness  of 
its  glistening  face  was  broken  by  a  torrent  which  leapt  and 
foamed  in  a  trellis  of  white  cascades  to  the  gloomy  mouth 
of  a  cavern.     Running  underground  for  half  a  mile,  it  re- 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  291 

appeared  to  their  left  and  lost  itself  in  the  reed-grown, 
scum-specked  swamp  which  filled  the  valley  with  malaria 
for  a  third  of  the  year. 

In  the  days  when  Hellenopolis  was  a  popular  township, 
the  shrine  of  an  oracle  and  the  first  house  of  call  for  thirty 
generations  of  Phoenician,  Greek  and  Syrian  merchants 
passing  from  Anactis  over  the  foothills  into  the  hinterland, 
the  stream  had  flowed  through  the  centre  of  the  city,  bear- 
ing with  it  a  cleansing  cold  wind  from  the  mountains  and 
washing  impurities  far  out  to  sea.  In  the  five  centuries  of 
neglect  and  desolation  following  on  the  Turkish  capture  and 
sack,  the  sand  on  the  foreshore  had  silted  up  to  form  the 
marsh,  and  in  the  destruction  of  the  city  the  stream  had 
changed  its  course. 

"N-no  one  knows  where  it  runs  now,"  said  Felix.  "I'm 
always  c-coming  across  it  in  unexpected  places.  It  goes 
far  too  near  my  1-library  for  my  peace  of  m-mind ;  we 
should  have  to  stop  work  for  a  m-month,  if  we  had  to 
d-dam  the  stream  and  d-divert  it." 

He  turned  the  head  of  his  mule  towards  the  bungalow, 
spoke  for  a  moment  with  his  foreman  and  began  to  move 
away,  but  his  companions  were  fascinated  by  the  spectacle 
of  what  had  been  done  and  the  boundless  possibilities  of 
what  remained  to  do, 

"I  wonder  if  Pompeii  was  like  this,"  Yolande  murmured. 

"How  was  it  when  you  first  came  here?"  Deryk  called 
out. 

Felix  swept  his  arm  round  the  smooth,  moonlit  lawn  and 
unreluctantly  rode  back  to  them. 

"A  stretch  of  grass  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain,"  he  said, 
"with  jagged  c-corners  sticking  out  here  and  there.  You 
see  the  g-gradient ;  once  you  t-tamper  with  the  lowest  build- 
ings, everything  falls  on  top  of  them.  According  to  the 
b-books,  that  first  slope  was  covered  with  houses  all  b-but- 
tressed  by  the  b-buildings  in  the  street.  C-cut  away  the 
street,  p-push  the  houses  down  the  slope,  clear  away  the 
people,  p-postulate  a  moist  climate  where  grass  grows 
quickly,  and  N-Nature  does  the  rest,  as  they  say." 


292  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"But  how  did  you  find  the  place  at  all?"  Yolande  en- 
quired.   "No,  I  won't  go  to  bed,  Felix." 

He  withdrew  his  hand  from  her  wrist  and  rubbed  his 
forehead  reflectively. 

"I'd  been  out  d-digging  round  the  tomb  of  Pausanias,"  he 
explained.  "They  g-gave  me  a  Wanscot  travelling  f-fellow- 
ship,  you  know,  and,  when  I'd  finished,  I  came  across 
country  and  reined  in  about  a  yard  from  here.  It's  a  w-won- 
derful  sight,  you  know,  the  b-black  rock  and  the  one  streak 
of  white  water;  even  n-now,  when  we've  grown  old  to- 
gether. ...  I  1-looked  and  1-looked,  trying  to  remember 
where  I'd  seen  it  before.    Well,  Deryk?" 

"Anaximenes,"  cried  Deryk  eagerly. 

Felix  nodded  with  a  chuckle. 

"I  s-said,  'We  must  be  somewhere  near  Hellenopolis !' 
You're  last  from  school,  Deryk.  What  d'you  know  about 
the  place  ?" 

Deryk  took  time  to  consider. 

"Strabo  mentions  it,"  he  said.  "And  I  seem  to  remem- 
ber a  pretty  full  account  in  Anaximenes " 

"But  what  was  he  doing  there  at  all  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Yes,  I  do,  though!  He  was  visiting 
Polycrates — 'Hellenopolis  sheltering  under  the  protecting 
shadow  of  the  mountain.'  " 

Felix  took  up  his  cue,  as  though  they  were  playing  a 
game. 

"And  Polycrates  lived  here  from  nineteen  till  forty-eight, 
when  he  went  to  Rome.  The  'Rhetoric'  was  written  here, 
Anaximenes  saw  the  1-library.  You  re-remember  his  ac- 
count of  the  house?  Oh,  but  you  must!  He  c-came  in  at 
the  southern  gate  and  particularly  n-noticed  the  lions  on 
the  posts;  there  was  a  fountain  further  on,  and  he  walked 
p-past  it  and  on  till  he  came  to  a  barber's  shop  and  a  man 
being  shaved  in  the  street.  He  asks  the  barber  to  d-direct 
him  to  Polycrates'  house,  and  the  man  who  is  b-being 
shaved  says,  if  he'll  w-wait  a  minute,  he'll  shew  him  the 
way  himself.  Of  c-course,  it's  Polycrates  in  p-person. 
They  g-go  through  the  market-place  and  over  a  bridge; 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  293 

Anaximenes  comments  on  the  stream,  and  Polycrates  tells 
him  that  the  c-city  was  stricken  with  p-plague  till  Heracles 
came  to  divert  the  course  and  drive  the  stream  through  the 
c-city.  He  tells  the  story  for  what  it's  worth ;  he's  much 
too  sceptical  to  b-believe  it  himself.  Then  they  c-come  to 
the  house  just  opposite  the  last  bridge  in  the  street — I've 
found  one  arch  of  it — and  it's  the  house  that  I've  spent 
the  last  years  uncovering."  Behind  their  glasses  his  eyes 
gleamed  with  excitement,  and  he  was  out  of  breath.  "For 
Heaven's  sake  r-read  your  Anaximenes  again,  D-Deryk." 

Again  he  turned  his  mule's  head  towards  the  bungalow, 
but  Yolande  rode  after  him  and  caught  his  arm. 

"What  then?"  she  demanded. 

"Complete  b-blank  till  1300,"  Felix  answered.  "My  dear, 
you  m-must  go  to  bed,  or  I  shan't  get  any  work  out  of  you 
to-morrow.  M-Marco  Polo  returned  to  Venice  in  1295, 
and  his  pupil  Marino  was  so  m-much  fired  that  he  had  to 
start  out  on  his  own  account.  He  only  w-went  through 
Greece  and  Asia  Minor  into  P-Persia  and  was  b-back  again 
in  five  years'  time,  as  against  Polo's  twenty-four.  And  he's 
a  b-bad  authority  at  any  time,  no  p-perspective,  no  arrange- 
ment, you  n-never  quite  know  what  year  or  country  you're 
in.  But  he  c-came  here  and  found  that  the  oracle  was  now 
the  shrine  of  a  Christian  saint ;  he  d-describes  the  mountain, 
which  struck  him  too,  t-tells  us  that  the  harbour  was  hardly 
used  and  that  the  whole  c-city  was  a  pretty  fair  dead-and- 
alive  place.  Then" —  Felix  laughed  with  nervous  im- 
patience— "then  he  drags  in  a  two-page  account  of  a  new 
way  of  serving  wild  boar." 

Yolande  took  a  last  look  at  the  ghostly  dunes  and  urged 
her  beast  towards  the  bungalow. 

"And  nothing  about  the  library?"  she  asked. 

"N-not  a  word.  Anaximenes  visited  the  p-place  in  174 
B.C. ;  b-barring  Strabo's  one  reference,  we  never  hear  of  it 
again  till  1300  or  1301,  and  then  there's  another  b-blank 
for  a  hundred  and  forty  years." 

"When  the  Turks  came?" 

Felix  nodded  with  unusual  vehemence. 


294  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Hateful  people!"  he  cried.  "They  can't  even  sack  a 
c-city  like  gentlemen.  Hellenopolis  comes  in  a  list  of  places 
destroyed  by  Othman  AH  on  his  way  across  Greece.  He 
d-doesn't  say  whether  he  burned  it,  or  massacred  the  in- 
habitants and  left  the  place  to  fall  into  ruin,  or  what.  And 
that  m-makes  just  all  the  difference.  If  he  b-bumt  the 
town,  it's  a  m-million  to  one  that  the  1-library  was  burnt  too, 
except  that  it  was  a  bit  out  of  the  way  and  b-below  street 
level.    D-don't  be  disappointed  if  we  find  nothing;  I  shan't." 

"Oh,  Felix!" 

"My  dear,  I  shan't.  I  dug  this  up  pretty  well  single- 
handed  when  the  Germans  said  that  there  was  no  such 
p-place.  I  fancy  this'll  t-take  some  explaining  away.  Now 
c-come  and  see  your  quarters." 

The  larger  bungalow  was  made  over  to  Felix  and  his 
wife ;  the  smaller,  once  the  home  of  the  foreman,  accommo- 
dated Deryk  and  a  camp  kitchen.  From  the  outset  Yolande 
ordained  that  they  constituted  a  republic  and  that  she  was 
entitled  to  share  equally  in  the  common  work;  the  truckle 
beds  were  made,  the  table  laid,  the  meals  served  and  the 
enamelled  mugs  and  plates  washed  by  each  in  turn;  in  the 
evenings,  while  the  men  wrote  up  their  journals,  she  was 
allowed  to  mend  their  tattered  clothes;  in  return  they  lit 
the  fire  and  rode  twice  a  week  to  Anactis  for  letters  and 
provisions.  Deryk  had  made  it  clear  on  the  way  out  that 
Felix  need  not  limit  himself  to  the  emoluments  of  his  pro- 
fessorship ;  extra  labour  and  new  appliances  he  would  sup- 
ply at  his  own  expense. 

"I  had  that  feeling  when  I  b-began,"  sighed  Felix  the 
first  night.  "T-twenty  years  of  this  gives  you  w-wonderful 
patience.  You  want  the  whole  thing  finished  to-morrow?" 
Deryk  hesitated,  laughed  and  finally  decided  not  to  answer. 

"You  have  to  be  patient,"  Felix  went  on,  "as  soon  as  you 
see  what  a  tre-tremendous  lot  of  energy  is  n-needed  to 
scratch  up  anything." 

"But  if  we  can  ginger  things  up  a  bit  ?"  Deryk  urged. 

"I'm  in  no  hurry.  It's  all  my  life,  you  see.  //  we  finished 
to-morrow,  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do." 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  295 

"Nor  would  Den-k,"  said  Yolande.  "He's  restless  at 
present,  but  I'm  going  to  cure  that." 

The  following  day  they  breakfasted  at  six,  and  Felix 
conducted  them,  almost  bursting  with  excitement,  to  the 
incline  which  led  down  to  the  Lion  Gate  and  the  Street  of 
Bridges.  Twenty  years  before  a  jagged  angle  of  stone  had 
protruded  through  the  grass,  and  Felix,  digging  round  and 
clearing  the  earth  and  stones,  had  persevered  until  he  had 
uncovered  a  single  gate-post  with  a  defaced  lion's  head  on 
top.  After  that  it  had  seemed  worth  while  to  go  on,  and  for 
most  of  Deryk's  life  and  all  of  Yolande's  he  had  dug  his 
way  down  the  main  street,  laying  bare  the  remains  of  its 
six  bridges,  uncovering  the  foundations  of  the  houses  on 
either  side  and  clearing  the  rectangular,  dwarf  market- 
place. Twice  twenty  years  would  not  suffice  to  conjure  the 
city  from  its  grave,  and  he  had  left  all  else  to  identify  the 
"house  opposite  the  bridge"  and  to  seek  among  its  tumbled 
stones  for  a  buried  library.  During  the  autumn  and  winter 
his  men,  under  the  supervision  of  the  scowling  Luigi,  had 
dug  under  the  lines  which  he  had  traced;  the  site  of  Poly- 
crates'  house,  like  a  square,  smooth-topped  tumulus,  stood 
erect  and  commanding. 

"We'd  better  g-get  to  work,"  he  told  Yolande  and  Deryk. 


With  the  three  principals  toiling  nine  hours  a  day,  with 
the  native  labour  doubled  and  with  an  output  of  energy 
many  times  multiplied  by  the  menace  of  Felix's  supervis- 
ing eye,  six  weeks  passed  before  the  shell  of  Polycrates' 
house  had  been  laid  bare.  Of  the  upper  half  nothing  re- 
mained, but  by  the  end  of  March  an  open  stone  box,  with 
spongy  earth,  rock  plants,  brute  masonry  and  fragments 
of  carved  stone  brimming  over  its  breached  sides,  was 
beginning  to  define  itself.  In  the  early  weeks  there  was 
much  talk  during  the  day  and  much  excited  discussion  at 
night,  but,  as  they  dug  deeper,  a  silent  determination  laid 
hold  of  all  three.     They  rose  mechanically  with  the  sun, 


296  MIDAS  AND  SON 

worked  until  noon,  rested  their  appointed  two  hours  and 
went  on  working  until  it  was  time  for  supper.  Neither 
Yolande  nor  Deryk  spoke,  after  the  first  week,  of  going 
back  for  one  more  hour ;  both  had  tried  the  effect  of  spas- 
modic nervous  overstrain  and  both  had  rebelliously  decided 
that  Felix  knew  more  of  their  difficulties  and  resources 
than  they  did.  After  a  month  they  were  fine-drawn  and 
trained  to  magnificent  condition,  with  clear  eyes  and  steady 
nerves.  Deryk  no  longer  complained  that  he  had  no  appe- 
tite or  could  not  sleep :  it  was  rather  Yolande's  complaint 
that  he  ate  more  than  his  fair  third  of  the  food,  and  Felix's 
that  he  could  never  wake  him  in  the  morning. 

On  one  day  in  seven  they  did  no  work.  Raymond  Storn- 
away was  making  it  his  business  to  send  them  papers  and 
books,  and  every  Saturday  Felix  or  Deryk  would  ride  to 
Anactis,  meet  the  incoming  island  steamer  and  return  with 
rich  booty.  If  Deryk  had  to  spend  Sunday  wrinkling  his 
forehead  over  foolscap  pages  of  technicalities  from  Hather- 
ly,  he  did  not  now  complain ;  the  business  which  had  once 
frightened  him  began  to  fascinate  him;  it  had  been  easy 
to  talk  of  millions  here  and  millions  there,  but  the  words 
had  little  meaning  for  him  until  he  found  himself  author- 
ising transfers  of  a  hundred  thousand  pounds,  selling  his 
interest  in  some  enterprise  in  Tennessee  or  acquiring  new 
interests  in  Colorado.  He  was  clear  in  his  own  mind  that 
he  did  not  propose  to  spend  his  life  as  unpaid  steward  of 
his  own  estate,  but  the  size  of  his  own  possessions  touched 
his  imagination. 

Before  leaving  England  he  had  talked  idly  with  Raymond 
of  buying  himself  a  house  in  London.  He  had  almost  for- 
gotten the  conversation  when  he  received  a  half-jocular 
letter  telling  him  that  the  club  house  of  the  old  "Hanove- 
rians" in  Pall  Mall  was  shortly  coming  into  the  market  and 
suggesting  that  he  should  buy  it  and  spend  a  few  happy 
months  pulling  it  to  pieces  and  rebuilding  it.  Deryk  thought 
over  the  proposal  for  a  week  and  then  asked  Raymond  to 
make  further  enquiries  and  ascertain  what  price  was  likely 
to  be  asked.    He  knew  the  house  well  enough  to  appreciate 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  .  .  .  297 

its  possibilities  and,  with  his  first  crude  understanding  of 
his  own  power,  he  was  glamoured  by  the  thought  of  making 
himself  such  a  home  as  no  one  had  ever  seen  before. 

On  Sundays,  when  all  three  had  lain  late  a-bed  and  by  a 
self-denying  ordinance  kept  away  from  the  scene  of  their 
week-day  labours,  the  journals  were  untouched,  and  they 
were  wont  to  sprawl  in  wicker  chairs  before  the  brazier  in 
the  kitchen,  reading  a  week's  accumulation  of  daily  papers 
and  trying  to  understand  why  the  distance  of  one  or  two 
thousand  miles  from  England  should  so  blunt  their  sus- 
ceptibilities to  the  hysterical  appeal  of  English  politics. 

"I'm  sorry.  I  can't  take  the  least  interest  in  the  Irish 
question,"  said  Yolande,  surrendering  her  paper  to  Deryk. 
"They  all  seem  very  angry  about  it,  and  there's  going  to 
be  civil  war  and  the  officers  at  the  Curragh  are  refusing 
to  fight  or  something.  I  don't  really  care  in  the  least. 
Give  me  the  next  one,  Felix ;  I  want  to  see  if  anybody 
I  know  is  getting  married." 

She  began  reading  again  and  then  stopped  abruptly,  look- 
ing over  the  top  of  the  paper  to  see  whether  either  of  the 
others  was  watching  her. 

"I  want  a  cigarette,"  she  announced.  Deryk  searched  in 
his  pockets  and  got  up  lazily  to  fetch  a  box  from  the 
screened  half  of  the  bungalow  that  formed  his  bedroom. 
While  he  was  away  she  tore  one  sheet  of  the  paper  and 
began  to  make  a  spill.  "It's  only  the  outside  page,"  she 
explained,  when  he  came  back. 

That  night  she  told  Felix  that  Sidney  Dawson  was  dead. 

"Deryk  doesn't  know,"  she  went  on  with  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression. "I  tore  the  announcement  out  before  I  knew  what 
I  was  doing.  He'll  hear  in  due  time,  of  course,  and  I  don't 
in  the  least  know  why  I  didn't  want  him  to  see  it,  except, 
of  course,  that  it  was  bound  to  bring  all  the  old  business 
back  to  him.  It  was  just  impulse,  but  I  daresay  it's  all  for 
the  best.  It's  a  horrid  thing  to  say,  but  if  only  he'd  died 
a  year  ago !" 

A  fortnight  later  they  had  further  news  from  Raymond. 

"...  I  don't  know  whether  it's  in  any  of  the  papers  I've 


298  MIDAS  AND  SON 

been  sending  you,"  he  wrote,  "but  Dawson  died  some  weeks 
ago  in  Naples.  I  heard  about  it  from  our  friend  Jim 
Loring,  who  has  just  returned  to  England  after  Heaven 
knows  how  long  cruising  about  in  his  yacht.  I  met  him  at 
dinner  last  week  with  the  Oakleighs,  and  he  told  me  he'd 
arrived  just  after  the  death.  I  didn't  hear  any  particu- 
lars, but  poor  little  Mrs.  Dawson  was  quite  prostrate.  Loring 
was  at  the  same  hotel,  and  it  appeared  that  the  manager 
marked  him  down  as  an  Englishman  and  hinted  pretty 
clearly  that  he'd  had  one  death  in  the  hotel  and  didn't 
want  a  second.  As  you  know,  Loring's  one  of  the  kindest 
fellows  on  earth,  and  he  did  everything  he  could  to  see 
that  she  was  properly  looked  after,  even  though  he'd 
never  seen  or  heard  of  her  before;  he'd  have  brought  her 
back  in  his  yacht,  if  she'd  been  in  a  fit  state  to  move,  but 
she  was  too  bad  for  that,  so  he  scoured  Naples  until  he 
found  the  Denys  Playfairs  and  put  her  in  their  charge. 
They  are  going  to  bring  her  back  as  soon  as  England's 
warm  enough  for  Denys'  lungs.  There's  going  to  be  un- 
pleasantness over  the  will,  as  Dawson's  left  everything,  in- 
cluding both  houses,  to  his  wife;  the  allowance  he  used 
to  make  to  his  sister  comes  to  an  end  automatically,  and  I 
don't  know  that  she'll  have  enough  to  live  on.  Never  be 
a  trustee  or  an  executor,  chick, — it's  a  fool's  game.  ,  .  ." 

Yolande  had  a  look  at  Deryk,  who  was  lying  asleep  at 
full  length  on  the  floor. 

*T  still  don't  see  what  good  purpose  will  be  served  by 
telling  him,"  she  whispered.  "Every  day  gained  is  worth 
having.  He  was  beginning  to  forget  all  about  her,  when  he 
met  her  somewhere  or  other — never  mind  how  I  know;  I 
do — and  heard  how  Mr.  Dawson  was ;  of  course  that  simply 
fanned  the  old  trouble  into  a  flame." 

Felix  was  listening  with  scant  comprehension. 

'T  d-don't  quite  follow,"  he  confessed.  "D-d'you  want 
him  to  marry  her  or  are  you  afraid  he  will  or  wh-what?" 

"Oh,  he  won't  marry  her.  She  was  just  a  passing  epi- 
sode, though  he  might  have  married  her  and  they  might 
have  been  very  happy.     I   only  want  to  keep  him  from 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  299 

brooding  over  his  wasted  life  and  that  sort  of  nonsense. 
We've  done  him  a  lot  of  good,  my  dear,  and  we're  going 
to  take  him,  back  a  new,  whole,  sane  man." 

By  the  middle  of  April  they  had  cleared  the  shell  of  the 
house  and  were  standing  on  a  naked  stone  floor.  Felix 
was  temporarily  at  fault,  because,  though  the  floor  rang 
hollow,  there  was  no  trace  of  any  way  down  into  the  cellar 
which  was  to  establish  once  and  for  all  time  whether  they 
had  found  the  library.  To  excavate  outside  for  a  stair- 
case was  to  add  three  months  to  their  work,  and  Felix  de- 
cided to  cut  through  the  floor.  It  was  late  evening  when 
he  marked  out  the  lines  for  the  morrow's  work,  and  his 
order  to  return  home  was  met  with  signs  of  mutiny. 

"There  are  hours  of  light,"  cried  Deryk,  pointing  to  the 
moon.     "I'll  pay  the  men  double  for  overtime." 

"It's  waited  f-five  hundred  years,"  Felix  reminded  him. 

"I  only  want  to  grub  about  on  top,"  Yolande  pleaded  with 
fine  show  of  reason.  "Honestly,  I'm  not  going  to  do  any 
more  work;  I  just  want  to  see  if  this  looks  like  the  right 
place." 

Felix  took  her  by  one  arm  and  Deryk  by  the  other. 

"I  have  sp-spoken,"  he  said.  "You'll  only  knock  your- 
selves up,  if  you  g-go  on.  And  it  isn't  just  getting  down 
there;  we  shall  have  plenty  to  do  when  we're  there." 

He  dragged  them  half-way  home,  and  they  ended  by 
racing  like  children  on  condition  that  they  were  allowed 
to  come  and  have  a  last  look  after  supper. 

"I  only  hope  that  you're  not  g-going  to  be  disappointed," 
he  observed  gloomily.  "You  ch-children  are  so  certain,  but 
I  regard  it  as  a  w-wild  improbability.  Five  hundred  years, 
p-probably  a  fire,  certainly  a  p-peculiarly  ruthless  army " 

Yolande  put  her  hand  over  his  lips. 

"Darling,  you  make  me  tired,  when  you  talk  like  this," 
she  complained.  "You  wouldn't  go  on,  if  you  really  thought 
it  so  improbable." 

He  drew  away  her  hand  and  slipped  it  through  his  arm. 

"If  we  b-bring  it  off,"  he  said,  "it's  the  b-biggest  thing 
since  the  Renaissance.     And,  if  we  don't,  we've  still  got 


300  MIDAS  AND  SON 

enough  to  f-fill  a  new  wing  at  the  British  M-Museum,  P-put 
in  a  spade  anywhere " 

Deryk  wrinkled  his  nose  disapprovingly. 

"  'Brown  Greek  manuscripts,' "  he  quoted. 

"You  won't  find  them !"  Felix  exclaimed  with  a  sudden 
note  of  certainty.  "Why  should  you?  You  w-wouldn't 
expect  to  find  a  library  of  even  King  Alfred's  time  in  an 
English  house." 

"Not  if  it  had  been  bricked  up  ever  since?  Rot,  Felix!" 
said  Deryk  decisively.  "Things  three  times  as  old  as  that 
are  being  found  daily." 

Felix  sighed  uncertainly. 

"It  was  b-better  protected,  of  course."  His  face  lit  up 
at  the  recollection.  "D-Deryk,  you  remember  your  Anax- 
imenes  ?  They  d-dined  in  state,  and  Polycrates  brought  out 
some  wine  that  he'd  bought  as  a  boy  and  hadn't  touched, 
because  he  only  drank  water  now.  And  Anaximenes  didn't 
think  much  of  it  and  was  too  polite  to  say  s-so.  And  after- 
wards they  went  downstairs  through  a  secret  door  to  a 
1-long  cavern,  where  the  manuscripts  were  kept  on  shelves 
— r-rather  like  an  umbrella-shop,  Yolande — and  Anax- 
imenes had  never  seen  anything  like  it  before,  and  P-Poly- 
crates  couldn't  tell  him  anything  except  that  it  was  s-said 
to  be  part  of  the  old  river-bed  b-before  Heracles  diverted 
the  stream."  His  voice  lost  its  momentary  eagerness  and 
became  diffident  again.  "Th-that's  our  only  hope,  of  course. 
When  I  first  read  Anaximenes  after  finding  this  place,  I 
f-felt  that  there  was  the  chance.  A  hidden  d-door  of  some 
kind,  below  street  level ;  it  ni-might  have  escaped  notice, 
his  successors  fnay  have  left  it  alone,  there  c-certainly  was 
rock  and  stone  all  round  to  protect  it.  B-but  it  seems  un- 
likely, doesn't  it?" 

His  despondency,  deepening  throughout  the  evening,  be- 
gan in  time  to  affect  his  companions,  but  in  the  morning 
they  had  recovered  their  faith,  and  he  succeeded  with  diffi- 
culty in  persuading  them  to  eat  any  breakfast.  From  seven 
o'clock  until  noon  the  hollow  shell  of  the  house  rang  with 
the  strokes  and  echoes  of  steel  picks  on  stone.     Felix  had 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  301 

chalked  a  generous  square  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and 
his  men  were  cutting  on  all  four  sides  at  once.  At  noon 
they  retired  to  their  shanties,  but  even  Felix  was  now  too 
much  excited  to  go  home.  Taking  one  corner  where  the 
stone  was  cut  deepest,  the  three  of  them  stood  in  a  triangle, 
like  pile-drivers,  striking  in  turn.  The  sweat  was  running 
into  Deryk's  eyes,  and  he  could  hear  Yolande  sobbing  with 
the  effort,  when  the  point  of  Felix's  axe  cut  through  and 
jammed. 

"Stand  back !"  he  cried.  "It'll  be  p-pretty  foul  after  five 
centuries." 

Covering  his  nose  and  mouth  with  a  handkerchief,  he 
worked  his  axe  loose,  and  all  three  began  chipping  the 
edges  of  the  hole.  A  creak  was  followed  by  a  sound  of 
tearing,  and  Felix  dropped  his  pick  and  jumped  backwards 
with  arms  outstretched,  again  crying,  "Stand  back!"  The 
chalked  rectangle  bent  slowly  down,  as  though  dragged 
from  below,  broke  off  short  at  the  marked  base  and  fell 
like  a  window  blown  in  through  its  casement. 

"My  dear,  I'm  glad  you  weren't  standing  there!"  Yo- 
lande exclaimed  breathlessly.  "You  tell  me  to  stand  back 
and  then — oh,  darling,  you've  gone  quite  white,  I  didn't 
mean  to  tease  you !" 

Still  breathing  hard,  Felix  removed  his  spectacles  and 
began  to  wipe  them. 

"Did  you  hear  the  stone  fall?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  waiting  to  see  what  was  happening  to  my  hus- 
band," she  answered,  pressing  his  arm. 

"Do  you  hear  anything  now?" 

Yolande  listened  intentif ,  After  the  hollow  ring  of  the 
picks  and  the  sound  of  their  own  raised  voices,  the  silence 
was  profound.  Deryk  advanced  cautiously  a  pace  nearer 
the  black  cavity.  An  almost  inaudible  noise  of  lapping, 
like  the  movement  of  an  animal  or  the  soughing  of  the 
wind,  was  borne  steadily  upwards.  He  stood  for  a  moment 
with  head  bent  sideways  and  then  moved  forward  again ; 
as  he  did  so,  his  foot  struck  a  splinter  of  stone  and  shot 


302  MIDAS  AND  SON 

it  into  the  yawning  blackness  of  the  vault.  Immediately 
there  came  an  unmistakable  splash. 

"Water?"  asked  Yolande  in  surprise. 

"You  didn't  hear  it  tlie  first  time,"  Felix  explained,  "be- 
cause you  were  waiting  to  see  me  f-follow  the  floor." 

Deryk  frowned  impatiently. 

"Oh,  Lord!  this  means  pumping,"  he  said.  "Have  you 
got  pumps,  Felix,  or  shall  we  have  to  send  for  some?  If 
so,  I'd  better  ride  over  to  Anactis  at  once  and  get  off  a 
cable." 

Felix  replaced  his  spectacles  and  looked  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"The  w-water  won't  inconvenience  us,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Think  not?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it."  He  laid  a  hand  on  the  shoulder  of 
each.    "Our  w-work's  over  here." 

Yolande  looked  at  him  with  startled,  unbelieving  eyes. 

"What  d'you  mean?"  she  asked  almost  indignantly.  "It 
may  not  be  anything;  you  don't  know." 

Felix  smiled  and  shook  his  head  wistfully. 

"B-better  face  it,  Yolande,"  he  advised  her.  "I  t-told  you 
to  look  out  for  foul  air,  but  this  is  as  fresh  and  pure  as 
it  is  outside — and  a  good  deal  cooler.  Th-that  isn't  stag- 
nant water;  it's  the  stream;  I  always  wondered  where  it 
got  to  hereabouts.  It's  r-really  interesting,  this ;  Poly- 
crates  was  quite  r-right  in  the  story  he  told  Anaximenes; 
the  vault  was  p-part  of  the  old  river-bed — before  Heracles 
diverted  the  stream.  S-someone  must  have  broken  down 
Heracles'  dam,  and  the  river's  gone  b-back  to  its  old  bed." 

Deryk  looked  at  him  with  mouth  blankly  open.  Then 
he  murmured, 

"My  God!" 

"D-don't  be  disappointed!''  laughed  Felix.  "We've  done 
a  g-good  morning's  work — settled  the  course  of  the  stream, 
confirmed  Anaximenes  as  a  t-trustworthy  authority.  Now 
I  want  some  food." 

He  clambered  over  the  piled-up  earth  and  masonry,  of- 
fered Yolande  a  hand  and  jumped  down  into  the  street. 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  303 

The  others  followed,  because  there  was  nothing  else  very 
obvious  for  them  to  do.  On  reaching  the  street,  Deryk 
caught  him  excitedly  by  the  arm. 

"Well,  we're  through  here,  I  suppose?"  he  began. 
"There's  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  back  and  say  we've  failed." 

"I've  only  j-just  started,"  Felix  answered.  "You're 
bound  to  get  occasional  d-disappointments ;  otherwise  the 
thing  w-wouldn't  be  worth  doing." 

"I'm  going  back,"  said  Deryk. 

"N-not  if  you're  worth  your  salt." 

"I'm  going  back,"  Deryk  repeated.  "This  chapter's 
closed." 

"Another?"  asked  Yolande.  She  spoke  with  demure 
mockery,  but  within  she  was  furious  that  at  such  a  time 
Derj'k  should  be  thinking  of  himself.  As  he  strode  tragi- 
cally forward,  she  held  her  husband  in  check  and  pulled 
his  head  down  until  she  could  kiss  him.  "Cheer  up,  old 
man,"  she  whispered.  "I  hate  people  to  shew  when  they're 
hurt !    It  isn't  done !" 

Felix  looked  away  for  a  moment  and  then  broke  into  a 
laugh  that  was  hardly  certain  of  itself. 

"I  was  thinking  of  old  Polycrates,"  he  exclaimed.  "No 
one  but  a  philosopher  would  dream  of  making  a  1-library 
out  of  a  disused  river-bed.  A  philosopher  or  an  archse- 
ologist,"  he  added. 

That  afternoon  Deryk  rode  over  to  Anactis  and  returned 
impenitent  with  the  announcement  that  the  boat  which  ar- 
rived at  the  end  of  the  week  would  bear  him  by  way  of 
Crete  to  Athens,  where  he  would  take  train  for  Patras  and 
pick  up  a  second  steamer  to  Brindisi. 

"I'm  in  this  for  any  money  you  like,"  he  told  Felix,  "but 
I  can't  stay  here  after  this  morning.  I  mean,  what  is  one 
staying  for?  You  might  stop  here,  digging  up  pots  and 
pans,  all  your  life." 

"You  m-might  indeed,"  Felix  rejoined. 

"That's  not  my  theory  a  bit.  I — er,  I  shall  simply  be  a 
wet  blanket,  you  know.  It's  better  for  me  to  clear  out. 
I  shall  go  to  Brindisi,  cross  over  to  Naples,  stay  a  few 


304  MIDAS  AND  SON 

days  in  Rome  and  make  my  way  back.  There  are  a  good 
many  things  waiting  for  me  at  home " 

"Oh,  Deryk,  don't  make  excuses !"  begged  Yolande. 

"All  right !    I  haven't  the  backbone  to  go  on,  if  you  like." 

The  atmosphere  was  uncongenial,  and  he  went  out  to 
finish  his  pipe  in  the  moonlight. 

"If  he's  going  to  Naples,  I  must  tell  him  who  he's  likely 
to  meet  there,"  said  Yolande  to  Felix,  when  they  were 
alone. 


Deryk  was  accompanied  to  Anactis  by  Yolande  and 
Felix,  and,  as  they  shook  hands  and  waved  good-bye,  he 
pretended  not  to  see  that  they  were  disappointed  in  him. 
After  all,  he  had  come  to  Hellenopolis  for  one  purpose, 
and  in  that  they  had  failed;  what  more  remained  to  do? 

"He's  like  a  child,"  Yolande  told  her  husband,  as  they 
rode  back.  "He  always  does  what  he  wants  to  do  and  is 
genuinely  distressed,  if  everyone  doesn't  approve." 

Deryk,  as  he  watched  them  jogging  down  the  quay  and 
through  the  town,  felt  that  it  was  ridiculous  of  them  to  be 
going  back,  but  none  the  less  that  he  ought  to  be  going 
back  with  them.  .  .  . 

On  their  way  to  Anactis  Yolande  had  mentioned  the  let- 
ter in  which  her  uncle  told  her  of  Sidney  Dawson's  death. 
Deryk  pigeon-holed  the  subject  for  further  discussion  with 
himself,  but  its  immediate  effect  on  his  mind  was  to  decide 
him  not  to  go  nearer  Naples  than  Brindisi.  So  long  as 
Idina  was  in  trusted  hands,  he  need  not  come  to  her  res- 
cue ;  beyond  that  he  hardly  knew  what  he  thought  or  wanted. 
Love  had  been  followed  by  bitterness,  and  bitterness  by  in- 
difference ;  after  indift'erence  came  an  hysterical  moment ; 
he  had  to  look  back  through  the  clouds  of  his  nervous 
breakdown,  and  it  was  impossible  to  say  what  he  felt  or 
how  deeply  he  felt  it.  He  was  satisfied  that  Idina  had  not 
been  rooted  from  his  heart  so  completely  as  he  had  once 
thought,  but  he  did  not  know  what  strength  of  foothold  she 
had  established  there.     Certainly  he  did  not  want  to  meet 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  305 

her  now;  the  news  of  her  husband's  death  was  only  wel- 
come in  so  far  as  it  delivered  her  from  the  agony  in  which 
he  had  found  her  four  months  earlier;  he  did  not  know 
whether  he  ever  wanted  to  meet  her  again.  .  .  . 

On  arriving  in  London  he  called  on  Raymond  and  report- 
ed the  results  of  nearly  two  months'  work  in  Asia  Minor. 
As  his  account  proceeded,  he  was  conscious  that  Raymond 
was  tacitly  wondering  why  two  had  remained  behind  and 
one  returned.  The  sense  of  unspoken  criticism  embar- 
rassed him,  and  he  hastened  to  justify  himself  by  an 
assumed  self-depreciation. 

"I  only  went  out  there  for  the  sensational  coup,"  he  re- 
marked. "When  that  didn't  come  off,  I  chucked  up  the 
party.  It  isn't  good  enough  to  devote  your  life  to  an  anti- 
climax." 

"Of  course,  you're  not  quite  a  free  agent,"  said  Ray- 
mond quietly.  "Did  you  find  any  time  out  there  for  think- 
ing about  the  future  ?" 

Deryk  cleared  his  throat  and  beat  the  side  of  his  leg 
with  his  umbrella. 

"I'm  going  down  to  Ripley  Court  to-night,"  he  said.  "I 
shall  spend  a  good  deal  of  my  time  there  till  Hats  has 
given  me  the  hang  of  the  business —  By  the  way,  I'm  going 
to  take  that  house." 

"You  might  do  far  worse,"  said  Raymond.  "But,  on  the 
larger  question,  have  you  thought  out  a  scheme  of  life?" 

"I  can't  say  that  I  have." 

"Did  you  try?" 

Deryk  laughed  uneasily. 

"I  can't  say  that  I  did.  I  honestly  don't  know  where  to 
start,  sir.  I  get  a  thousand  and  one  appeals  for  money  and 
I  do  my  best  to  answer  them  judiciously." 

"Anyone  can  do  that,"  Raymond  murmured. 

"Well,  I  can't  see  beyond  it,"  said  Der\'k  impatiently. 

Raymond  shook  his  head  good-humouredly. 

"Come,  come!  That  won't  do,"  he  said.  "You  haven't 
tried.  If  you  collected  the  world's  twelve  greatest  author- 
ities on  cancer  and  offered  them  a  million  to  stamp  out 


3o6 


MIDAS  AND  SON 


the  disease,  that  would  be  something  beyond  the  ordinary 
round  of  charity.  But  have  you  never  thought  how,  with 
your  money,  you  could  re-educate  the  world?  We've  got 
a  curious  public-school  standard  of  honour — we  don't  lie 
much,  or  steal,  or  sneak,  or  let  a  man  down — but  it's 
amazingly  limited.  Have  you  ever  thought  how  a  new 
standard  in  education  would  improve  it?  So  that  a  man 
would  no  more  think  of  drinking  too  much  when  he's 
among  men  than  he  would  if  he  were  with  women?  So  that 
you'd  no  more  think  of  paying  a  clerk  insufficient  wages 
than  you  would  of  taking  coppers  out  of  his  coat  pocket?" 
Raymond  hesitated  in  an  attempt  to  compress  his  teaching 
into  a  single  apothegm.  "The  new  great  ethical  attack  has 
to  be  launched  against  the  cruelties  and  dirtinesses  and  dis- 
honesties which  are  sanctioned  by  everyday  custom  and 
extolled  as  part  of  our  competitive  theory  of  survival.  Do 
you  think  you  could  educate  people  out  of  that  frame  of 
mind?" 

Deryk  assumed  an  expression  of  regretful  worldliness. 

"You  can't  alter  human  nature,  sir,"  he  objected. 

"That,  my  dear  Deryk,  has  been  said  in  every  generation 
and  disproved  by  every  generation.  People  are  lazy;  and 
peculiarly  lazy,  you'll  find,  when  it  comes  to  radical  think- 
ing.    Go  down  to  Ripley  Court  and  think." 

One  result  of  the  interview  was  hardly  intended  by  Ray- 
mond. As  Deryk  made  his  way  to  the  door,  he  came  to  an 
obstinate  determination  that  the  interview  should  be  the  last 
of  its  kind.  With  an  eager  will  to  make  the  best  of  his 
opportunities,  he  only  found  questioners  who  asked  what 
he  proposed  to  do  or  oracles  who  told  him  that  he  must  find 
out  for  himself.  They  did  not  appreciate  that  he  was 
really  trying  to  oblige  them.  He  did  not  for  a  moment 
admit  Yolande's  contention  that  it  was  his  duty  to  pay 
the  money  back  to  society ;  still  less  did  he  regard  himself 
as  a  life  trustee  of  a  public  fund.  The  money  was  his, 
but  there  was  so  much  of  it  that  he  was  looking  for  useful 
and  beneficial  outlets.  Raymond,  who  professed  to  have 
well-weighed  ideas  on  the  subject,  ought  to  be  grateful 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  307 

for  the  blank  promises  which  he  had  received ;  he,  appar- 
ently, not  only  thought  that  the  world  was  a  cruel  and 
unhappy  place,  but  cherished  the  belief  that  he  could  alter  it. 

"I  shall  go  home  for  a  bit,"  he  told  Raymond,  "but  I've 
done  all  the  thinking  I  want  to.  The  fact  is,  you  know,  as 
my  father  used  to  say,  people  have  to  work  out  their  own 
salvation ;  it  doesn't  do  to  coddle  them." 

"I  said  you  were  an  idle  young  scamp,"  Raymond  ob- 
served. "Think  sociologically  and  don't  work  off  the  igno- 
rant cliches  of  an  old  maids'  tea-party." 

"Well,  it  isn't  my  business  to  set  the  world  right." 

"Then  you'd  better  make  it  your  business,  my  boy. 
Otherwise,  you  know,  you'll  feel  you've  made  a  fool  of 
yourself  when  you  come  to  die  and  find  that  you've  done 
nothing,  nothing,  nothing  with  your  life.  If  you  were 
Shelley,  just  on  the  point  of  drowning,  wouldn't  you  feel  a 
fool  if  you'd  walked  about  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets 
instead  of  writing?  Don't  tell  me  that  he  was  a  poet  and 
that  you  aren't.  Poetry  was  his  opportunity ;  money's  yours, 
so  don't  waste  any  more  of  your  youth."  He  dropped  the 
bantering  tone  and  beckoned  Deryk  back  into  the  room. 
"Remember  your  father;  he  started  too  late.  When  he'd 
made  his  opportunity,  he'd  destroyed  his  power  of  using  it. 
He  couldn't  even  think  how  to  use  it  ...  Go  home  and 
think,  Der}'k.  I  shouldn't  say  this  to  you,  if  you  were  a 
fool;  I  say  it  to  you  because  you've  shewn  yourself  to 
have  brains,  and  I  believe  you've  as  much  imagination  as 
your  neighbours — which  isn't  much,  by  the  way — and  a 
wider  experience  in  some  respects." 

Deryk  spent  a  week  in  Sussex  and  then  returned  to  his 
rooms  in  London.  He  promised  Hatherly  to  come  down 
for  long  week-ends  and  excused  his  flight  by  enlarging 
on  the  new  house  which  he  was  buying  in  London.  In 
fact  it  was  the  size  and  silence  of  Ripley  Court  and  the 
want  of  companionship  which  drove  him  away.  The  work 
and  Hatherly's  patient  expositions  he  could  support,  but  a 
succession  of  luncheons  and  dinners  with  the  two  of  them 
at  opposite  ends  of  the  table  tried  his  nerves  beyond  bearing. 


3o8  MIDAS  AND  SON 

They  had  nothing  more  to  discuss.  On  their  travels  there 
had  been  new  cities  to  explore,  new  friends  to  make  on  the 
steamer;  he  had  really  seen  very  little  of  his  companion. 
Now  he  seemed  to  be  assisting  at  an  endless  memorial  serv- 
ice of  his  father;  Sir  Aylmer's  life  was  encased  within  the 
steel  walls  of  the  study  safe,  Sir  Aylmer's  designs  and  de- 
sires formed  the  liturgy,  Sir  Aylmer's  personality  seemed 
to  haunt  the  house  until  Deryk  wondered  by  what  force  of 
character  he  had  impressed  himself  so  strongly  on  his  as- 
sociates. Perhaps  they  had  simply  refused  to  defy  a  slow- 
ly dying  man.  .  .  . 

Throughout  May  and  June  he  devoted  three  days  a 
week  to  business.  The  rest  of  his  time  he  spent  in  Lon- 
don, playing  with  his  new  house.  For  seventy  years  the 
Hanoverian  Club  had  inhabited  a  square  grey-stone  build- 
ing on  the  south  side  of  Pall  Mall,  backing  on  Carlton 
Gardens  and  commanding  St.  James'  Park  from  its  top 
windows.  The  site  was  Crown  property,  and,  when  the 
lease  expired,  the  club  was  unwilling  to  pay  the  new  rent. 
Deryk  had  been  attracted  partly  by  a  staircase  copied  from 
Egmorton  House,  partly  by  the  possibilities  of  the  rooms 
for  entertaining  and  as  a  treasure  house  for  pictures  and 
furniture.  Ripley  Court  had  been  filled  to  overflowing 
by  his  father;  much  of  the  furniture  belonged  to  a  period 
which  Deryk  abhorred,  any  pictures  but  the  old  Stornaway 
portraits  were  worthless  in  art;  they  were  of  his  father's 
choice  and  collection,  however,  and  he  did  not  care  to  dis- 
turb them.  Raymond,  who  never  failed  to  find  a  man  or 
woman  for  any  purpose,  brought  him  in  touch  with  a  young 
architect  of  recklessly  profuse  genius,  who  was  awaiting  his 
opportunity.  For  a  week  they  explored  the  house,  room 
by  room ;  for  another  week  the  architect  worked  eighteen 
hours  a  day  on  his  first  plans;  the  two  men,  whose  joint 
ages  totalled  less  than  fifty  years,  gesticulated  and  talked 
themselves  hoarse  for  three  days,  and  Deryk  ordered  speci- 
fications to  be  drawn  and  estimates  invited.  By  the  begin- 
ning of  June  scaffolding  had  spread  from  floor  to  roof  of 
the  square  marble  hall. 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  309 

Before  the  work  started  and  while  it  dragged  out  its 
leisurely  course,  he  hailed  every  friend  whom  he  met  to 
come  and  see  it.  Some  looked  apprehensively  at  the  size 
of  the  operations,  others  criticised  openly  and  all  volun- 
teered suggestions,  which  Deryk  heard  patiently  and  swept 
aside  as  though  they  had  never  been  made,  even  trying  to 
convince  his  friends  that  they  had  not  and  could  not  have 
made  them.  He  found  it  more  difficult  to  find  an  answer  to 
the  question,  however  often  repeated,  why  he  had  bought 
the  house  at  all ;  and  Hatherly,  on  being  conducted  round 
with  Raymond,  succeeded  in  unwittingly  chilling  Deryk's 
enthusiasm  by  putting  his  head  perfunctorily  into  each 
room  and  observing, 

"Ah,  yes !  Very  nice,  but  I  don't  quite  see  why  you 
want  it,"  and  then  jerking  out  question  after  question, 
until  Deryk  broke  away  in  despair  and  said  that  he  had 
bought  the  place  because  it  amused  him  to  buy  the  place. 

"It's  a  harmless  amusement,"  said  Raymond,  coming  un- 
expectedly to  his  rescue.  "Don't  run  it  down,  Hatherly.  He 
can  make  a  very  beautiful  place  of  it." 

"But  he's  got  Ripley  Court,"  protested  Hatherly. 

"Yes,  but  that's  full  of  his  father's  things ;  there's  no 
room  to  expand.  Oh,  I  can  quite  appreciate  a  man's  want- 
ing to  make  his  own  collection  and  spread  it  about  his  own 
house." 

Hatherly 's  nod  suggested  that  such  a  view  might  be 
tenable,  but  that  he  did  not  hold  it. 

"I  naturally  imagined  that  he  would  spend  most  of  his 
time  in  Sussex,"  he  said. 

Deryk  grew  suddenly  intolerant  of  the  conversation  that 
was  being  carried  on  over  his  body.  "Naturally"  he  was 
expected  to  bury  himself  at  Ripley  Court ;  his  father  had 
assumed  that  and  only  bought  and  lived  in  the  house  on 
that  assumption ;  it  had  persevered  to  the  end.  Now 
there  seemed  to  be  a  thinly  veiled  grimace  of  grievance,  if 
he  departed  by  one  step  from  Sir  Aylmer's  ideal  conception 
of  his  life. 

"A  man  really  must  be  allowed  to  decide  where  he  wants 


3IO  MIDAS  AND  SON 

to  live,"  he  exclaimed  with  dwindling  patience.  Hatherly 
was  a  good  fellow,  a  dear  fellow,  but  in  some  moods  he 
seemed  to  have  caught  Sir  Aylmer's  trick  of  souring  all 
enjoyment  in  a  thing;  it  was  exactly  like  Sir  Aylmer's  be- 
haviour over  the  pearl  necklace  the  first  night  of  his  return 
from  abroad  eighteen  months  before.  The  one  inhibition 
has  stolen  his  pleasure  from  all  the  other  presents.  .  .  .  What 
had  happened  to  the  pearl  necklace  now?  Though  it  was 
the  cue  for  his  ten  months'  tragic  scene  with  his  father,  he 
had  hardly  thought  of  it  since  he  threw  it  into  a  drawer 
and  caught  one  last  glimpse  a  few  days  later  when  he  was 
collecting  clothes  for  his  flight  to  London.  It  was  of  no  use 
now,  but  at  one  time  he  could  have  brought  about  great 
happiness  with  it,  when  Idina  was  poor.  Now  she  was  a 
rich  woman.  .  .  These  things  always  came  too  late ;  the 
world  was  a  place  where  you  always  got  what  you  wanted 
as  you  ceased  to  want  it.  He  had  never  actively  desired 
the  death  of  Sidney  Dawson,  still  less  of  his  own  father, 
but,  if  either  had  died  a  year  earlier,  it  would  have  made 
a  profound  difference  to  Idina's  life  and  his  own;  Ripley 
Court  would  be  habitable,  if  only  he  could  bring  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  youth,  and  he  would  find  double  his  present 
pleasure  in  contriving  the  London  house,  if  she  had  been 
there  to  share  it.  There  was  something,  after  all,  in  Hath- 
erly's  general  criticism ;  it  was  rather  absurd  to  buy  a 
second  palace  when  he  was  always  complaining  that  the  first 
one  was  too  big. 

"Have  you  had  any  news  of  Mrs.  Dawson?"  he  asked 
Raymond  suddenly.  "The  last  I  heard  was  that  she  was 
ill  in  Naples." 

"She's  back  in  England,"  Raymond  answered.  "We  had 
a  long  talk  on  business  matters  a  week  ago.  She's  been 
pretty  bad,  Deryk." 

"Has  she  been  back  long?"  Deryk  asked,  trying  to  keep 
his  tone  indifferent. 

"About  a  month.  She  hasn't  been  in  town  much,  though ; 
I'm  getting  rid  of  the  Eaton  Square  house  and  the  place 
in  Sussex  for  her,  and  in  the  meantime  she's  living  at  the 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  311 

Hans  Crescent  Hotel,  when  she's  not  vegetating  in  the 
country.     She'll  be  in  London  again  next  week." 

He  threw  the  information  out  like  a  man  forcing  an  op- 
portunity, and  Deryk  instinctively  drew  back.  He  was  not 
going  to  have  his  mind  made  up  for  him  by  others;  he 
knew  the  truth,  and  they  did  not ;  above  all  he  was  not 
going  to  be  hurried ;  Raymond  could  keep  his  suggestions 
to  himself  until  he  had  decided  whether  he  wanted  to  meet 
her  again. 

"What's  happened  to — well,  I  suppose  she's  Idina's  sister- 
in-law  now  ?"  he  asked. 

"Miss  Dawson?  She's  living  at  Tunbridge  Wells,"  Ray- 
mond answered  shortly. 

He  did  not  mention  the  struggle  which  he  had  had  with 
Idina  to  secure  the  means  of  letting  Miss  Dawson  live  there 
or  anywhere.  The  will  explicitly  left  everything  to  the 
widow,  and  Idina's  eyes  had  blazed  with  an  exultant  and 
alien  fire  of  revenge  when  she  found  her  tormentor  at  her 
mercy;  she  told  Raymond  hysterically  that  she  would  let 
her  starve  to  death  before  she  helped  her.  "My  dear,  you'd 
regret  it,"  he  told  her,  "and  you  must  forgive  me  for  warn- 
ing you  that  you're  simply  making  a — behaving  very  fool- 
ishly, if  you  do  anything  now  that  you'll  regret  afterwards. 
What  you're  going  to  do  is  to  pay  Miss  Dawson  an  annuity. 
If  you  refuse,  I  shall  pay  it  out  of  my  own  pocket,  and  that 
cuts  the  ground  from  under  your  feet." 

Deryk  brought  the  tour  of  his  house  to  an  end  and  stood 
for  a  moment  in  the  hall,  looking  up  at  the  circular  skylight, 
on  which  the  gallery  and  hall  depended  for  illumination 
during  the  day.  An  idea  had  come  to  him,  and,  when  his 
friends  passed  out  into  Pall  Mall,  he  hurried  upstairs,  for- 
getting Idina  in  the  excitement  of  novelty,  and  scrambled 
up  the  fire  escape  on  to  the  roof.  All  south-west  London 
lay  beneath  him  in  diamond  clarity  of  outline ;  beyond  Carl- 
ton Gardens,  the  Mall,  and  beyond  the  Mall  a  green  stretch 
of  grass,  a  blue  mirror  of  unruffled  water,  fig-trees  in  fruit 
and  chestnuts  in  leaf.  Through  the  frame  of  the  Admiralty 
Arch  a  stunted,  many-coloured  procession  of  cars  and  car- 


312  MIDAS  AND  SON 

riages  poured  into  Trafalgar  Square  from  Whitehall  and 
the  Strand ;  the  muffled  roar  of  traffic  came  like  sound  in  a 
dream;  foreshortened,  hurrying  foot-passengers  raced  and 
jostled  each  other  with  absurd  pre-occupation.  To  the 
south  the  wireless  installation  of  the  Admiralty  reared  it- 
self easily  above  the  dwarfed,  obsolete  Horse  Guards,  the 
Foreign  Office  jutted  forbiddingly  out  to  the  border  of  the 
curving  road,  and  in  the  distance  a  squat  Wesleyan  dome 
measured  itself  pertly  beside  the  grey  towers  of  the  Abbey. 

Deryk  looked  beyond  it,  fascinated  by  the  extent  of  the 
view  and  amused  by  his  own  fancies  in  assigning  personal 
attitudes  and  qualities  to  the  buildings.  Watchful  and 
brooding,  the  tower  of  Westminster  Cathedral  dominated 
the  secular  south-west  of  a  heretic  capital,  challenging 
Parliament  to  the  contemplation  of  an  oecumenical  empire 
and  patronising  the  upstart  pretentiousness  of  Buckingham 
Palace.  Constitutional  Hill,  St.  James'  Palace,  the  Victoria 
Memorial  flashing  green,  white  and  gold  in  the  afternoon 
sun,  and  once  more  the  beginning  of  the  Mall  completed 
the  circle. 

"Some  view,"  he  murmured.  With  an  effort  he  dragged 
himself  away,  skirted  the  glass  dome  in  the  middle  of  the 
roof  and  sat  down  on  the  parapet  to  contrast  the  outlook  on 
the  north.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  on  a  height  so 
unprotected  since  the  days  when  he  went  to  Switzerland 
every  Christmas ;  then  he  had  boasted  a  steeplejack's  head 
and  he  was  reassured  to  find  it  still  steady.  He  leaned  for- 
ward to  take  in  the  substance  and  solid  worth  of  Waterloo 
Place,  Pall  Mall — with  its  air  of  being  always  Sunday  after- 
noon— the  opening  ascent  of  St.  James'  Street  and  the  van- 
ishing point  of  Cleveland  Row.  To  his  fancy  the  plebeian 
motor  omnibuses,  which  ran  westward  up  Cockspur  Street, 
seemed  to  hesitate  and  lose  confidence  in  themselves  until 
they  escaped  northward  by  the  Haymarket  or  Lower  Re- 
gent Street.  It  was  a  subfusc  backwater  of  palaces,  ducal 
mansions,  clubs  and  expensive,  old-fashioned  shops.  Nor- 
folk House,  the  Junior  Carlton  and  the  distant  roof  of  the 
London  Library  dominated  the  view  and  frowned  impar- 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVArT  ...  313 

tially  on  the  unbegrimed  pallor  of  the  Automobile  Club  and 
the  peeling,  grey-black  stone  of  his  own  house. 

The  more  he  looked,  the  stronger  grew  his  determination 
to  utilise  the  broad  flat  roof  and  secure  the  means  of  en- 
joying his  glorious  view.  One  staircase  needed  to  be 
brought  a  storey  higher,  the  lighting  dome  must  be  re- 
placed by  a  sheet  of  glass  and  the  roof  must  be  enclosed 
to  form  a  winter  garden.  He  walked  to  and  fro,  exulting 
in  his  new  scheme,  planning  its  outlines  and  trying  to  im- 
agine its  finished  eflfect.  It  was  almost  time  to  dress  for  din- 
ner before  he  had  done,  and  even  then  he  could  not  leave 
his  new-found  empire  without  a  sigh.  The  great  house 
seemed  dark  and  deserted,  when  he  entered  it  again  after 
the  sunlight  of  the  roof,  and  for  the  first  time  he  was  almost 
dismayed  by  the  spaciousness  and  number  of  the  rooms; 
the  place  was  only  half  the  size  of  Ripley  Court,  but  it 
was  half  as  large  again  as  any  London  house  that  he  knew. 

"What  the  deuce  am  I  going  to  do  with  it  ?"  he  murmured 
impatiently;  then  he  grew  more  impatient,  because  he  was 
talking  to  himself,  and  to  think  aloud  was  with  him  an  in- 
variable symptom  of  over-strain.  "I  don't  suppose  I  could 
stand  the  place  alone  for  a  single  week,  but  I'm  equally  sure 
that  I've  never  met  the  person  that  I  could — now — stand 
to  share  it  with  me." 

He  had  paused  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his 
head  bent  forward  at  the  last  half-landing  where  Hatherly 
and  Raymond  had  stood  before  leaving  two  hours  earlier, 
discussing  Idina's  health  and  prospects.  Ever  since  he  had 
heard  at  Anactis  of  her  widowhood,  he  had  appreciated 
that  a  problem  had  to  be  faced;  so  far  he  had  resolutely 
refused  to  face  it;  his  love  for  Idina  a  year  before,  his  faith 
in  their  common  happiness  were  subjects  of  which  he  would 
think  endlessly,  especially  late  at  night,  when  he  felt  un- 
restrained and  could  indulge  the  luxury  of  self-pity.  He 
had  never  considered  dispassionately  how  much  he  still 
cared  for  her  and  whether  he  wanted  to  marry  her. 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  anyone,"  he  told  himself  eva- 


314  MIDAS  AND  SON 

sively.  "We  should  simply  get  fed  up  with  each  other  in 
a  week." 

Then  he  knew  that  the  problem  would  not  bear  further 
shirking;  for  an  hour,  as  he  walked  about  the  Park,  he 
examined  himself  without  reservation  or  hypocrisy.  At 
the  end  he  felt  limp  and  exhausted,  but  he  had  established 
to  his  own  satisfaction  that  he  was  as  fond  of  Idina  as  he 
had  ever  been;  he  was  also  satisfied  that  after  eighteen 
months  he  required  firmer  foundation  for  marriage  than 
their  old  boy-and-girl  love.  It  would  be  rash  to  meet  her 
unless  he  were  sure  that  he  needed  her ;  in  the  next  mo- 
ment he  appreciated  that  he  had  been  able  to  live  without 
her  for  a  year. 

"But  she  wasn't  a  free  woman  then,"  he  told  himself  de- 
fensively. 

A  clock  in  the  neighbourhood  began  chiming  a  quarter, 
and  he  found  that  he  was  already  half  an  hour  late  for 
dinner. 


Their  meeting,  when  it  took  place,  was  unpremeditated. 
Der)'k  was  so  busy  throughout  the  summer  that  he  had  no 
time,  even  if  he  had  decided  to  have  the  inclination,  to  go 
where  he  was  likely  to  meet  Idina.  On  settling  in  Lon- 
don he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  enjoy  himself;  for  a  week 
or  two  he  accepted  invitations  and  impetuously  secured 
himself  a  box  at  Covent  Garden.  Then  the  house  in  Pall 
Mall  provided  a  new  distraction,  and  everything  else  passed 
out  of  mind.  He  lunched  and  dined  at  the  County  Club, 
went  down  to  Sussex  once  a  fortnight  instead  of  every 
week-end  and  discontinued  the  parties  which  he  had  for  a 
month  so  industriously  gathered  round  him.  The  box  at 
the  opera  went  begging,  and  he  lived  all  day  and  a  large 
part  of  the  night  within  the  shell  of  his  new  house  or  in  a 
feverish  passage  from  shop  to  sales-room  and  sales-room 
to  shop.  Hatherly  would  call  on  him  in  bed  and  pin  his 
attention  to  business  for  half  an  hour,  but  to  the  rest  of  his 
friends  he  was  inaccessible. 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  315 

When  the  Manistys  returned  to  England  at  the  beginning 
of  July,  Yolande  wasted  a  week's  effort  in  trying  to  make 
him  call ;  and,  when  he  came,  it  was  uninvited  and  unan- 
nounced at  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  as  she  was  finishing 
dinner.  His  presence  was  made  known  by  a  sound  of  music 
from  the  drawing-room,  and  her  maid  explained  in  some 
confusion  that  a  strange  young  gentleman,  giving  no  name, 
had  forced  his  way  in,  enquired  whether  dinner  was  over 
and  stated  that  he  would  sit  in  the  drawing-room  until  Mrs. 
Manisty  was  ready  to  see  him.  Yolande  excused  herself 
to  her  guests  and  hurried  away. 

"I  said  you  weren't  to  be  disturbed!"  Deryk  cried  im- 
patiently, as  she  came  in. 

"I  thought  it  must  be  you,"  answered  Yolande.  "It's  all 
right,  I'll  go  back  immediately,  but  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that 
Uncle  Raymond  and — Dina  are  dining  here." 

Der}'k  continued  playing  to  himself,  with  his  eyes 
averted. 

"And  she  doesn't  want  to  meet  me?"  he  suggested  at 
length. 

"I  can't  say.  She  doesn't  know  you're  here,  I  thought 
I'd  better  warn  you." 

He  nodded  his  thanks. 

"If  she  doesn't  mind  meeting  me,  I  don't  mind  meeting 
her,"  he  said.  "It's  pretty  well  bound  to  come  sooner  or 
later  as  long  as  we've  got  friends  in  common.  You'd  better 
tell  her,  though,  before  she  comes  in ;  if  she  jibs,  hide  her 
away  for  a  moment,  while  I  escape." 

Yolande  returned  to  the  dining-room  and  forced  the  at- 
tention of  her  guests  away  from  her  mysterious  visitor. 
When  the  meal  was  over  and  she  broke  the  news  in  a  whis- 
pered colloquy  outside  the  door,  Idina  only  flushed  and  said, 

"Come  in  v/ith  me,  and  I  shall  be  all  right." 

The  drawing-room  was  in  darkness,  and  they  made  no 
sound  above  the  music  as  they  came  in.  Only  the  sudden 
draught  and  the  bellying  of  the  curtains  forced  Deryk  to 
turn  round. 

"You  must  excuse  these  clothes,"  he  began  volubly.     "I 


3i6  MIDAS  AND  SON 

hadn't  time  to  change,  I  hadn't  time  to  dine  even — no, 
honestly  I  won't  have  anything,  I'm  not  hungry — I'd  have 
got  round  before,  if  I  could — "  He  held  out  his  hand  and 
transferred  his  nervous  volubility  to  Idina.  "Are  you 
all  right  again?"  he  asked.  "I  was  most  awfully  sorry  to 
hear  you'd  been  so  ill.  Jim  Loring  brought  the  news,  I 
understand ;  is  he  in  England  now  ?  I  haven't  seen  him  for 
years." 

"Yolande's  been  telling  me  about  your  work  in  Asia 
Minor,"  said  Idina,  catching  the  nervous  contagion.  "No, 
I  haven't  seen  Lord  Loring  since  I  got  back.  It  must  have 
been  a  frightful  disappointment  to  you  all,  but,  as  Dr. 
Manisty  says,  if  you  don't  have  occasional  disappoint- 
ments, you  don't  have  anything." 

Yolande  cut  short  the  stilted  prattle  by  bringing  two 
chairs  forward. 

"No  reason  why  we  should  all  stand,  is  there  ?"  she  asked. 
"Der}^k,  if  you  won't  have  any  dinner,  you  can  at  least 
have  some  coffee.    Ring  the  bell,  there's  a  dear  child." 

Ten  minutes  later  Felix  and  Raymond  entered  to  find 
all  three  elaborately  inspecting  the  chair-covers  and  cur- 
tains, still  avoiding  each  other's  eyes  and  still  keeping  the 
conversation  neutral,  but  without  any  other  noticeable  ap- 
pearance of  tension,  Deryk  captured  his  host  and  plunged 
with  him  into  a  discussion  of  the  later  excavations  at  Hel- 
lenopolis,  while  Raymond  in  turn  submitted  to  being  led 
round  to  admire  the  furniture  and  hangings. 

"Deryk  hasn't  had  time  to  shew  you  his  new  place,  I 
suppose  ?"  he  asked.  "I  think  you  must  give  a  party,  Deryk. 
This  is  quite  disinterested,  because  I  shan't  be  there ;  I've 
got  to  go  to  Vienna  again  next  week." 

"Stealing  more  doctors?"  Yolande  enquired. 

He  nodded. 

"You  won't  get  any,  sir,"  Deryk  predicted.  "They'll 
want  all  they've  got  for  Servia.  With  any  luck  there's 
going  to  be  a  scrap  there,  if  the  Servians  don't  accept  the 
Austrian  ultimatum." 

"Ah,  but  they  will,"  Raymond  answered.     "It's  mon- 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  317 

strously  unfair,  but  they  can't  do  anything  else,  and  the 
Russians  aren't  in  a  position  to  help  them — any  more  than 
they  were  in  a  position  to  stop  Austria  half  a  dozen  years 
ago,  when  she  annexed  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina.  It  won't 
come  to  fighting,  or  I  can  assure  you  that  I  shouldn't  be 
going  there.  I  like  travelling  in  comfort,  and  you  don't 
do  that  when  the  military  authorities  have  taken  over  the 
railways." 

Deryk  brought  a  chair  to  the  sofa  where  Yolande  and 
Idina  were  sitting,  and  they  arranged  a  date  for  lunching 
with  him  and  inspecting  the  house.  Their  attitude  was 
now  free  from  strain,  and  he  found  himself  describing  his 
father's  death  to  Idina,  giving  her  news  of  Hatherly  and 
her  other  friends  at  Aston  Ripley  and  putting  sympathetic 
and  intimate  questions  on  her  own  movements.  Yolande 
got  up  to  give  her  uncle  another  cigar  and  stayed  by  him, 
leaving  Idina  to  talk  undisturbed.  Deryk  learned  that  Sid- 
ney Dawson  had  died  of  dropsy  in  circumstances  of  dis- 
figurement, blindness,  pain  and  madness  which  could 
hardly  be  described,  had  Idina  wished  to  do  so.  For  weeks 
after  his  death  she  had  lain  with  her  own  life  hanging  by 
a  thread;  then  her  youth  had  asserted  itself,  and  she  had 
come  back  to  England  resolved  to  live. 

Deryk  stole  a  sideways  glance  at  her  and  was  astonished 
to  find  so  little  trace  of  change.  She  was  dressed  in  half 
mourning,  she  wore  a  wedding-ring,  her  eyes  looked  tired ; 
that  was  all.  And  she  was  eighteen  months  older  than  when 
he  returned  to  England  with  Hatherly.  His  wandering 
attention  was  caught  by  a  reference  to  her  future  plans. 
She  was  getting  rid  of  her  two  houses — her  two  houses! 
She  looked  a  fair-haired  debutante,  and  he  had  to  remind 
himself  that  she  was  a  rich  woman,  a  widow,  in  the  early 
twenties,  ready  to  begin  life  again.  Something  that  was 
either  jealousy  or  a  paternal  protectiveness  warned  him 
that  she  stood  lonely  and  exposed —  She  was  getting  rid  of 
her  two  houses  and  had  taken  a  cottage  on  the  south  coast 
where  she  could  amuse  herself  with  a  garden.  .  .  He  was 
moved  to  recognise  the  inadequacy  of  the  life — striking 


31 8  MIDAS  AND  SON 

roses  and  designing  borders  from  twenty  to  seventy!  It 
was  as  inadequate  as  his  own!  "My  brother's  going  into 
the  navy.  You  remember  Martin?"  Deryk  had  never 
thought  of  the  boy  for  a  year  and  a  half,  since  Sir  Aylmer 
sent  him  to  WelHngton.  "He  was  going  into  the  army, 
but  that  takes  so  long.  Before  I — quite  knew  where  I 
was,  you  know,  your  father  suggested  his  going  to  Dart- 
mouth. He's  grown  enormously."  Deryk's  attention  wan- 
dered again,  as  he  tried  to  reconcile  his  father's  public  and 
private  conduct  to  the  Penroses.  In  his  last  confession  he 
had  never  made  really  clear  the  one  thing  that  mattered 
in  his-  son's  life.  .  .  . 

They  were  still  talking  slowly  and  thinking  long  be- 
tween their  sentences,  when  Raymond  crossed  over  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

"I  don't  want  to  break  up  the  party,"  he  told  them,  "and 
Yolande  says  you  mustn't  think  of  going  yet,  but  I've  got 
work  to  do  before  I  go  to  bed.  Mrs.  Dawson,  if  you  want 
to  see  me  again  on  business,  it  must  be  within  the  next 
week.    After  that  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  Vienna." 

As  he  bowed  himself  out,  Deryk  looked  at  his  watch. 

"A  quarter  past  eleven,  by  Jove !"  he  exclaimed.  "Look 
here,  can  I  give  you  a  lift,  Dina?  My  car's  outside,  and 
I'll  drop  you  anywhere.  We  must  hurry,  though,  or  I 
shan't  get  any  supper,  and  I  haven't  had  anything  to  eat 
since  breakfast." 

Idina  jumped  to  her  feet  and  was  hurried  away  to  get 
her  cloak,  while  Felix  gave  Deryk  a  drink  and  walked 
downstairs  with  him.  As  the  car  drove  away,  he  slipped 
his  arm  through  his  wife's  and  stood  on  the  steps,  looking 
up  at  the  stars. 

"It  w-went  off  all  right,  I  think,"  he  said  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  It  was  their  first  effort  at  entertaining  in  their  little 
Chelsea  house  and  even  Yolande  had  been  nervous. 

"I  wonder  what  those  two  are  going  to  do,"  she  mur- 
mured, watching  the  tail-lights  disappear  down  the  road. 

"You're  an  imp-p-penitent  match-maker,  darling,"  said 
Felix. 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  319 

"No,  I'm  not.  I  wouldn't  take  the  responsibility  with 
Deryk.  He  needs  a  lot  of  handling,  and  I  don't  at  all  know 
that  Dina's  the  sort  of  woman  he  wants.  I  don't  know 
really  what  he  does  want."  She  sighed  perplexedly  and  led 
her  husband  back  into  the  house.  "I  shan't  be  a  bit  sur- 
prised, if  they  do  marry.  Deryk's  never  been  in  love 
with  anyone — not  as  I  understand  love — but  he  thinks 
he  was  in  love  with  her."  She  laughed  uneasily.  "It's  a 
sort  of  superstition,  as  some  people  think  new  bread  doesn't 
agree  with  them.  And  of  course  Dina  imagines  she  wrecked 
his  life  and  would  do  anything  to  make  amends.  Besides, 
she'd  fall  in  love  with  anyone  that  was  kind  to  her."  There 
was  another  sigh  and  a  second  uneasy  laugh.  "People  are 
a  great  nuisance,  aren't  they,  darling?" 

"It's  none  of  our  business,"  Felix  reminded  her. 

"Oh,  you  can't  get  rid  of  it  like  that !  I  always  feel  as  if 
Deryk  were  my  own  dear,  beautiful,  naughty,  attractive, 
selfish,  generous,  wilful  little  son.  I've  known  him  so  long, 
Felix  dear ;  he's  had  a  rotten  life,  and  there's  so  much  good 
in  him,  and  it'll  all  go  to  waste,  if  we're  not  careful." 

As  the  car  headed  for  the  Hans  Crescent  Hotel,  Deryk 
suggested  diffidently  that  he  supposed  Idina  would  not  care 
to  have  supper  with  him  somewhere,  or,  at  least,  to  keep 
him  company,  while  he  ate.  ^ 

"Unless  you're  tired,"  he  added  hastily,  wondering  why 
he  had  given  an  obviously  superfluous  invitation. 

"I  should  like  it,"  she  said  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 
"It's  been  very  pleasant,  seeing  you  again,  Deryk.  And, 
when  I'm  settled  in  my  cottage,  I  don't  suppose  we  shall 
meet  much." 

He  picked  up  the  speaking  tube  and  directed  his  chauffeur 
to  drive  to  the  Carlton  Grill  Room. 

"Do  you  remember  the  last  time  we  drove  together?"  she 
asked,  as  he  leaned  back  again.  The  words  were  hardly 
framed  as  a  question,  but  they  made  him  shiver. 

"Honestly,  I  hardly  do,"  he  answered  quickly.  "It  was 
just  before  my  father  died,  and  I  had  a  sort  of  break- 
down.    For  about  a  fortnight  everything  seems  like  a  bad 


320 


MIDAS  AND  SON 


dream.  You — you  know  the  feeling  that  something  you're 
saying  or  doing  had  been  said  or  done  before — you  can't 
place  it.  I — to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  haven't  tried  to  remem- 
ber much  about  it." 

Idina  gathered  her  cloak  closer  round  her  shoulders. 

"I  haven't  tried,  but  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said,  covering 
her  eyes  -wiih  one  thin  hand.  "I  hoped,  when  I  was  ill,  that 
I  should  forget  everything,  but  I  feel  it  will  be  years  before 
I  forget, — if  I  ever  do.    It  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  end." 

The  car  was  turning  into  Pall  Mall,  and  Deryk  leaned 
forward  to  throw  his  cigarette  away. 

"It  was  only  about  six  months,"  he  expostulated.  "That's 
not  much  in  a  lifetime,  however  bad  the  dream.  I  was 
thinking  to-night,  Dina,  how  extraordinarily  young  we 
both  were.  We  seem  to  have  been  through  a  devil  of  a 
lot,  but  our  average  is  still  comfortably  under  twenty-five." 

"I  don't  feel  that,"  she  answered.  "I  don't  know  what 
age  I  feel." 

The  Grill  Room  was  only  half-full,  when  they  arrived, 
and  Deryk  had  no  difficulty  in  securing  a  table  in  one  of  the 
far  bays.  As  the  theatres  emptied,  the  vacant  seats  began 
to  fill,  and  he  found  himself  bowing  to  one  party  after 
another. 

"You  seem  to  know  everyone,  Deryk,"  said  Idina,  who 
was  looking  about  her  with  an  interest  not  far  removed 
from  excitement.  "It's  an  absurd  thing  to  say,  but  I've 
never  been  out  to  supper  in  London  before.  You  see,  we 
lived  in  the  country  for  so  long,  and,  when  I  got  back  to 
England  after  my  honeymoon,  my  husband's  health  became 
bad  almost  at  once.  Oh,  wasn't  that  Lord  Loring?  I  should 
like  to  thank  him  for  all  he  did  in  Naples." 

They  crossed  the  room  to  a  table  where  Loring  and  his 
sister  were  sitting  with  George  Oakleigh  and  his  cousin. 
On  their  way  back,  after  a  few  moments'  conversation,  they 
were  accosted  by  Summertown,  who  was  giving  supper  to 
a  supercilious-looking  girl  with  hungry  eyes  and  a  cruel 
mouth.  Oakleigh  allowed  a  faint  interest  to  betray  itself 
in  his  urbane,   kindly  expression   of  boredom;   Summer- 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  321 

town  stared  unceremoniously  and  then  reminded  Idina,  to 
the  obvious  displeasure  of  his  companion,  that  they  had 
met  once  at  Ripley  Court.  It  was  not  lost  upon  Der}'k  that 
Idina,  who  looked  a  lily  against  a  dark  background,  was 
arousing  interest  in  herself  and  that  his  presence  in  her 
company  did  nothing  to  diminish  the  interest.  As  he  sat 
down,  he  could  see  George  Oakleigh  bent  over  the  table, 
explaining;  the  eyes  of  the  others  were  directed  for  a  mo- 
ment to  the  far  bay  before  turning  carelessly  back  to  their 
own  table.  Deryk  was  suddenly  annoyed;  then  he  won- 
dered why  he  was  annoyed. 

"You've  told  me  nothing  about  yourself,"  he  heard  Idina 
saying. 

"There's  so  little  to  tell,"  he  answered,  beckoning  to  the 
waiter  and  ordering  himself  a  cigar.  "When  I  got  back 
from  Asia  Minor,  I  had  some  business  to  attend  to;  then 
I  bought  this  house,  and  it's  taken  up  all  my  time." 

Idina  was  sitting  with  her  chin  upon  her  clasped  hands, 
watching  and  listening,  as  she  used  to  listen  when  he  came 
home  from  school  for  the  holidays.  He  had  forgotten  the 
look  and  the  attitude. 

"And  when  you've  finished  it?"  she  asked. 

"I  shall  live  there,  I  suppose." 

As  he  said  them,  he  knew  that  the  words  were  untrue. 
He  could  no  more  live  by  himself  in  Pall  Mall  than  in 
Sussex;  hardly  waiting  to  enquire  whether  he  could  live 
with  anyone  else,  he  decided  that  the  joy  of  the  new  house 
lay  in  the  rebuilding  of  it;  even  if  he  could  endure  the 
size  and  desolation  of  it,  he  could  not  simply  take  his  meals 
and  sleep  there.  Had  he  not  just  told  Idina  how  young 
they  both  were?  He  could  look  forward  to  another  fifty 
years  of  life,  twice  as  many  as  he  had  lived  so  far. 

"I  didn't  know  whether  you  were  going  into  politics  or 
anything,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,  I  don't  know  how  to  begin," 
he  answered.  "We're  in  the  same  boat,  in  a  way.  You 
must  have  more  money  than  you  know  what  to  do  with " 

"I'm  thinking  of  giving  most  of  mine  away,"  she  in- 


322  MIDAS  AND  SON 

terrupted.  "If  I  kept  about  three  or  four  hundred  a  year 
and  lived  quite  simply —  The  only  thing  is,  I've  a  horror  of 
being  poor  again.  It  was  so  dreadful  before;  you're  so 
helpless.  But  I  don't  v^-ant  all  I've  got  now;  I  don't  feel 
I've  really  a  right  to  it." 

She  fidgeted  with  the  hem  of  her  scarf  and  looked  up  to 
find  Deryk  leaning  forward  eagerly. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

He  now  threw  himself  back  with  an  expression  of  dis- 
appointment. 

"Ah !  I  hoped  you  were  going  to  help  me !  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  with  mine ;  and  I've  a  haunting  feeling  that  all 
this  money  is  going  to  spoil  my  life.  I  shall  always  be 
thinking  of  it,  wondering  how  to  use  it,  where  to  get  rid 
of  it;  I  shall  be  enslaved  to  it,  attending  to  it  daily  until 
I  have  no  time  to  lead  my  own  life,  whatever  that  may  be." 

His  face  was  grown  haggard,  and  his  lower  lip  was 
thrust  forward  as  though  in  rebellion  against  fate.  .  . 

"Whatever  that  may  be?"  she  repeated. 

Deryk  sighed  and  passed  his  hand  wearily  across  his 
eyes. 

"I  seem  to  have  done  everything,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
know  what  I  want  to  do." 

"I  wish  I  could  help  you,  dear  Deryk,"  she  answered 
softly. 

At  half-past  twelve  he  led  her  upstairs  and  drove  her  to 
the  Hans  Crescent  Hotel.  As  the  car  slowed  down  before 
the  door,  she  pressed  his  hand  gently. 

"Thank  you  for  everything,  Deryk,"  she  whispered. 
"That  last  drive,  you  know.  You've  forgotten  it,  but  I  can't 
tell  you  how  much  you  steadied  me,  when  I  was  almost  out 
of  my  mind.  All  the  time  he  was  dying,  I  felt  that  you 
were  thinking  of  me  and  being  sorry  for  me.  Bless  you, 
dear  Deryk !" 

For  want  of  anything  to  say,  he  kissed  her  hand. 

"We've  always  been  good  pals,"  he  said  gruffly,  as  he 
groped  for  the  handle  of  the  door. 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  323' 

"You  were  a  jolly  good  pal  to  me  then!"  she  answered. 
"I'd — I'd  have  thrown  myself  under  a  train,  if  I'd  had 
the  courage." 

"Then  I'm  glad  you  hadn't!"  he  laughed.  "And  you're 
glad,  too,  whatever  you  went  through.  You've  no  reason 
for  not  being  happy  now,  Dina."  , 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  opened  the  door  and  helped 
her  on  to  the  pavement. 

"I  want  to  see  you  again,"  he  told  her,  as  they  shook 
hands. 

"But  I'm  lunching  with  you  to  see  the  new  house." 

"Ah,  but  that's  a  long  way  off.  Will  you  dine  with  me 
to-morrow  night?" 

Idina  looked  into  his  eager  face  and  lowered  her  eyes. 

"I'm  going  back  to  the  country  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "I 
only  came  up  for  one  night  to  dine  with  Yolande." 

"You  don't  think  you  could  stay  another  night?"  he 
pleaded. 

"Yes,  if  you  want  me  to.  I'll  do  anything  you  want  me 
to,  Deryk." 


Deryk  re-entered  his  car  with  a  familiar,  obstinate  feel- 
ing that  he  was  not  going  to  sleep  for  many  hours  and 
that  it  was  hardly  worth  trying.  He  picked  up  the  speaking- 
tube  and  told  the  chauffeur  to  stop. 

"How  tired  are  you  ?"  he  asked.  "I  don't  feel  m.uch  like 
going  to  bed,  and,  if  you're  equal  to  it  and  you've  enough 
petrol,  we  might  go  down  to  Ripley  Court  and  spend  the 
night  there.  We  ought  to  do  it  in  under  two  hours,  but 
you'll  have  to  drive  me  up  to-morrow  morning.  I  can't 
stand  trains." 

The  man  was  growing  better  used  to  his  master's  ec- 
centric times  and  movements  than  Deryk,  perhaps,  sus- 
pected. Without  demur  he  turned  the  car  towards  the 
river,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  were  gliding  through 
the  South  London  suburbs.  Deryk  found  himself  comfort- 
ably tired  after  a  long,  hungry  day  and  yet  more  com- 


324  MIDAS  AND  SON 

fortably  lethargic  after  his  late  meal,  but  his  brain  was 
working  steadily  and,  as  it  seemed,  with  penetrating  clarity, 
flashing  its  light  on  scene  after  scene  until  they  were  con~ 
nected  in  a  unified  whole.  He  saw  Yolande,  bare-armed 
and  slender,  with  her  hair  boyishly  parted  over  one  eye, 
standing  by  the  piano  with  an  expression  of  embarrass- 
ment, warning  him  that  Idina  vv^as  in  the  house.  He  saw 
Yolande  again,  tactfully  leaving  them  together  on  the 
sofa.  .  .  And  Summertown  at  the  Carlton  with  his  vin- 
dictive harpy  guarding  him.  Idina  was  very  young,  very 
beautiful,  and  Lord  Marling  had  little  money  to  spare  for 
his  son's  disreputable  but  expensive  amusements.  .  .  .  He 
could  almost  hear  George  Oakleigh  drawling  out  his  ex- 
planation— "I've  met  her,  I  believe ;  he^s  rather  a  friend  of 
mine.  They  were  always  supposed  to  be  engaged,  but  she 
married  some  other  fellow — I've  forgotten  his  name — who 
died  and  left  her  a  lot  of  money.  .  ."  And  no  doubt  Loring 
would  interrupt  to  supply  the  name.  .  . 

Deiyk  had  the  feeling  that  he  was  being  regarded  as  the 
hero  of  a  chequered  but  delightful  romance,  which  all  his 
friends  were  joining  hands  to  forward.  He  sincerely 
wished  that  people  would  leave  him  alone.  .  .  Then  a  flash 
of  clarity  shewed  him  that  he  was  really  to  blame.  He 
need  not  have  stayed  in  Yolande's  house,  he  need  not  have 
offered  Idina  a  lift,  or  invited  her  to  supper  with  him.  .  . 
Yet  he  had  enjoyed  it  all,  especially  when  he  saw  her  with 
her  chin  on  her  hands  and  her  eyes  upon  him ;  there  was 
something  friendly  and  caressing  about  her,  he  was  grown 
used  over  many  years  to  having  her  as  a  confidant,  she  had 
idolised  and  idealised  him  so  delightfully.  And  certainly 
she  had  drawn  out  of  him  the  best  that  he  had  to  give.  .  . 
It  was  curious  to  think  that  once  he  had  walked  up  and 
down  the  streets  of  London,  cursing  her — that  he  had  tried 
to  blot  her  from  his  memory  and  had  prayed  that  he 
would  not  meet  her  again.  .  .  They  had  both  been  through 
so  much  suffering  that  they  met  without  recrimination  and 
took  up  their  lives  where  they  had  been  interrupted;  she 


I 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  325 

■was  ready  to  marry  him — he  had  no  doubt  of  that  from 
the  moment  when  they  said  good-night.  .  . 

The  swift  passage  of  the  car  made  him  drowsy  and 
reminiscent,  but  he  roused  himself  now  to  answer  a  ques- 
tion which  had  lain  in  cover  at  the  back  of  his  mind  for 
three  months.  It  had  to  be  answered;  he  must  make  up 
his  mind  whether  he  wanted  to  marry  Idina.  She  was  de- 
voted to  him,  they  had  known  each  other  so  long  that  mar- 
riage could  not  entail  many  surprises  for  either,  she  would  fit 
herself  into  his  life  and  not  want  to  lead  a  life  of  her  own ; 
his  friends  would,  of  course,  be  hers,  and  she  would 
not  want  to  fill  the  house  with  tiresome  people  that  he 
did  not  like.  .  .  .  He  shuddered  and  laughed  to  think  of 
the  ragamufiins  that  Yolande  would  have  introduced;  his 
father,  in  his  wisdom,  had  wanted  him  to  marry  Yolande ! 
Among  the  many  .  .  .  He  sighed  to  contemplate  the  frozen 
groove  into  which  he  would  have  been  forced  by  marrying 
Summertown's  sister ;  the  Farwells  were  related  to  so  many 
people!  Yet  his  father  had  played  with  the  idea  of  his 
marrying  Sally  Farwell.  And  with  Sonia  Dainton,  He 
could  almost  hear  Lady  Dainton  lightly  referring  to  "my 
son-in-lav;.  Sir  Deryk  Lancing,  don't  you  know";  he  could 
imagine  Sonia  restlessly  whirling  him  through  a  monotonous 
round  of  "exclusive"  parties  and  turning  his  house  into  a 
place  where  her  friends  with  no  other  excuse  for  staying 
out  of  bed  would  congregate  to  play  poker  or  roulette. 
Yet  Idina  had  been  turned  away — or  so  he  still  believed — 
while  the  others  were  counted  eligible !  Idina  was  the  only 
one  who  would  not  drive  him  mad  in  a  week. 

Day  was  breaking,  and  he  sank  deeper  into  his  corner. 
Body  and  mind  were  tired,  and  some  of  their  weariness 
infected  his  thoughts.  Idina  would  be  a  restful  wife,  and 
he  wanted  rest.  She  was  not  likely  to  develop  a  strong  per- 
sonality of  her  own,  but  he  did  not  want  that ;  he  had  more 
than  once  seen  husband  and  wife  growing  jealous  of  the 
other's  success  at  their  own  dinner-table.  She  would  not 
make  a  commanding  position  for  herself  in  society,  but  he 


326  MIDAS  AND  SON 

did  not  want  that,  however  much  his  father  may  have 
desired  it.  .  .  . 

Deryk's  thoughts  came  back  with  a  jerk  to  his  father's 
letter.  He  was  at  least  prepared  to  agree  that  he  ought  to 
marry;  a  man  of  his  age  had  to,  and  with  a  man  in  his 
position  it  was  a  duty.  .  .  .  He  wondered  what  it  would 
feel  like  to  have  children  of  his  own ;  he  did  not  in  the  least 
yearn  for  them,  but  it  must  be  a  curious  sensation,  it  must 
make  a  man  feel  extraordinarily  old  all  of  a  sudden  .  .  . 
But  it  must  be  interesting  to  watch  them  growing — when 
they  had  got  over  the  first  horrible  years  of  teethings  and 
measles  and  slobbery  helplessness  and  noise;  interesting  to 
make  plans  for  them,  send  them  to  school,  talk  over  what 
they  were  going  to  do  .  .  .  What  on  earth  was  he  going 
to  tell  them  to  do?  Was  there  going  to  be  a  dramatic 
evening  when  the  eldest  came  of  age?  Was  he  going  to 
say,  "My  boy,  I've  decided  that  the  time  has  come  to  ex- 
plain things  to  you.  I  don't  know  whether  you  have  any 
idea  how  much  money  you'll  be  coming  in  for,  when  I  die ; 
of  course,  it  will  be  in  the  hands  of  trustees.  .  .  ." 

The  little  speech,  to  be  delivered  more  than  twenty  years 
later,  was  singularly  like  Sir  Aylmer's  speech,  when  he 
looked  across  to  see  if  Hatherly  approved  and  then  men- 
tioned the  size  of  his  own  income !  In  twenty-one  years, 
the  capital  would  have  appreciated  and  grown ;  grown  per- 
haps out  of  all  control.  He  could  fancy  his  son  stammer- 
ing, "But — but  what  d'you  do  with  it?"  and  himself 
replying  with  unaffected  gravity,  "You  will  have  to  answer 
that  question  in  your  time." 

In  twenty-one  years  he  might,  of  course,  have  found  an 
outlet;  otherwise  it  was  to  confess  defeat  and  to  hand  on 
to  a  mere  boy  a  problem  which  his  father  and  grandfather 
had  failed  to  solve.  So  far  they  might  fairly  say  that  they 
had  not  tried,  for  Sir  Aylmer  had  been  a  dying  man  for 
fifteen  years,  and  there  had  not  been  time  since  his  death 
for  anyone  else  to  try.  When  once  he  started,  when  once 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  where  to  start  .  .  .  He  must 
look  into  figures  and  see  what  Ripley  Court  and  the  Lon- 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  327 

3on  house  would  cost  him.  Thirty  thousand?  Fifty?  He 
could  hardly  make  a  guess,  but  fifty  thousand  seemed  a 
gigantic  sum  for  two  people  and  two  houses,  however  prodi- 
gal; that  would  leave  another  nine  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand a  year — nine  hundred  and  fifty  thousand ! — and,  unless 
he  could  get  rid  of  it,  there  would  be  the  old  task  of  in- 
vesting the  surplus  and  laying  up  a  bigger  burden  for  the 
following  year  ...  It  was  funny  that  the  only  man  who 
could  help  him  refused  to  lend  a  hand!  Raymond  had  a 
plan  and  boasted  of  it,  but  where  did  it  tend?  By  an  ex- 
penditure of  nine  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  a  year  for 
any  number  of  years  a  man  could  indeed  make  himself  a 
political  force,  but  how  was  he  to  use  his  power?  There 
was  no  particular  amusement  in  wielding  a  big  party,  run- 
ning a  group  of  papers,  even  influencing  relations  between 
states.  It  was  a  power,  of  course,  but  the  engine  of  his 
car  represented  power;  it  was  unattractive  unless  a  man 
knew  how  he  wanted  to  use  it,  where  he  wanted  to  go.  .  .  . 

The  car  stopped  suddenly,  and  he  watched  his  chauflFeur 
getting  out  to  open  the  lodge  gate  of  Ripley  Court.  Deryk 
yawned  and  looked  at  his  watch,  but  it  had  stopped  a  few 
minutes  after  two.  As  the  car  glided  along  the  curving 
sweeps  of  the  drive,  he  saw  the  house  standing  out  against 
the  sky-line,  first  on  his  right  and  then  on  his  left.  He  tried 
to  appreciate  his  father's  feelings  when  he  first  saw  it, 
when  he  drove  back  to  it  day  after  day,  when  he  felt  it 
becoming  a  part  of  himself  and  of  something  more  than 
himself;  once  again  his  mind  leapt  forward  until  he  began 
to  lead  his  own  son  through  the  long  rooms,  explaining  that 
it  would  all  be  his  some  day  ...  A  pride  of  possession 
entered  his  soul  for  the  first  time,  as  he  drew  up  at  the 
side  door  by  the  chapel  and  began  feeling  for  his  keys. 

After  breakfast  six  hours  later  he  carried  a  pipe  and  an 
armful  of  papers  to  his  father's  study.  With  the  assistance 
of  Phillimore  he  disposed  of  them  quickly  and  strolled  into 
Hatherly's  office  for  a  chat.  The  car  was  not  ordered  until 
five  in  the  afternoon,  and,  on  leaving  Hatherly,  he  wandered 
round  the  house,  appraising  the  rooms  and  ending  with  a 


328 


MIDAS  AND  SON 


call  on  Mrs.  Benson,  who  flusteredly  addressed  him  as  "my 
dear,"  apologised  and  tried  to  tempt  him  with  food. 

"Nothing,  really,  thanks,"  he  told  her.  "As  I  was  down 
here  unexpectedly,  I  thought  I'd  come  in  and  see  how  you 
were.  I  say,  it  isn't  true  that  you're  talking  of  leaving,  is  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Benson  smoothed  her  unwrinkled  silk  apron  with 
deferential  hands. 

"Well,  my  dear — I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Deryk 
— we're  none  of  us  as  young  as  we  once  was,  and,  when  your 
dear  father  died,  I  said  to  Benson,  'Benson,'  I  said " 

Deryk  vaulted  on  to  the  table  and  sat  there  swinging  his 
legs. 

"Were  you  fond  of  my  father,  Mrs.  Benson?"  he  inter- 
rupted. "I  mean,  I  should  awfully  like  to  know  what 
other  people  thought  of  him." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him  cautiously. 

"He  was  a  kind  gentleman,"  she  said  at  length.  "And  a 
very  fair  gentleman.    He  was  very  fond  of  you,  my  dear." 

"Were  you  afraid  of  him  at  all?"  Deryk  asked. 

"I  always  carried  out  his  orders  exactly  as  he  gave 
them,"  she  answered  pregnantly.  Then,  after  a  pause, 
"Benson  and  I  decided,  when  your  father  died " 

"But  I  can't  run  this  place  without  you,"  he  interrupted. 

"Why,  my  dear,  you're  hardly  ever  down  here;  and  the 
place  runs  itself." 

"But  if  I  married?  You  wouldn't  like  me  to  bring  a 
wife  home  and  not  have  you  to  shew  her  round." 

The  housekeeper's  eyes  brightened  with  interest  and 
became  suddenly  moist. 

"Are  you  truly  getting  married,  my  dear?  Oh,  I'm  glad 
to  hear  it!  I  pray  God  you'll  be  very  happy.  No,  I 
shouldn't  like  not  to  be  here  when  you  bring  her  home, 
that  I  shouldn't.    I  thank  you  for  telling  me." 

Deryk  jumped  down  from  the  table  and  started  towards 
the  door. 

"It  isn't  decided  yet,"  he  told  her,  "but  more  unlikely 
things  have  happened." 

On  his  way  back  to  London  he  unlocked  a  despatch  box 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  329 

and  read  again  his  father's  last  letter.  Fanciful  and  ro- 
mantic as  were  many  of  its  leading  ideas,  he  was  surprised 
to  find  so  much  imagination.  Sir  Aylmer  might  have  been 
wrong-headed ;  his  errors  did  not  lie  on  the  surface.  But 
the  letter,  even  on  a  -second  reading,  contained  no  guidance, 
and  it  was  specific  guidance  that  Deryk  wanted. 

A  note  from  Yolande  was  awaiting  him  when  he  reached 
his  rooms ;  she  complained  that  they  had  hardly  exchanged 
six  words  the  previous  evening  and  begged  him  to  choose 
a  night  for  dining  with  her  the  following  week.  "I'll  see  if 
I  can  get  Dina  to  come,"  the  letter  ended;  "she  ought  to 
go  out  more,  or  she'll  begin  to  mope."  Deryk  smiled  and 
turned  to  the  next  envelope,  which  was  addressed  in  Ray- 
mond's hand-writing.  The  letter  read  unexpectedly  :  "My 
dear  Mrs.  Dawson,  I  am  off  to  V'ienna  on  Friday.  Can  you 
lunch  with  me  on  Thursday?  Say  the  Ritz  at  2:00  p.  m. 
Most  sincerely  yours,  Raymond  Stornaway." 

'T  suppose  hers  contained  a  ditto  ditto  for  me,"  mur- 
mured Deryk.  "Old  Stornaway  doesn't  mind  about  his  left 
hand  knowing  what  his  right  hand's  doing.  And  as  a 
family  the  Stomaways  shew  more  detern\ination  than 
variety.  They've  made  up  their  minds  that  I'm  to  marry 
her  and  they'll  go  about  taking  all  the  credit.  Still,  if  it 
amuses  them " 

He  dressed  and  drove  round  to  the  Hans  Crescent  Hotel, 
where  he  had  telephoned  to  say  that  he  would  call  for 
Idina.  She  was  awaiting  him  in  the  hall  with  an  apology 
for  having  only  the  dress  in  which  he  had  seen  her  the 
previous  evening. 

"You  looked  very  sweet  in  it  last  night,"  he  reassured 
her.  "I'm  not  sure  you  don't  look  sweeter  still  this  evening. 
How  are  you?    Well?" 

She  nodded  with  bright  eyes. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again,  Deryk,"  she  whispered. 
"Where  are  you  taking  me  to  ?" 

"The  Savoy.     D'you,mind  that?" 

"I've  never  been  there ;  I  shall  love  it." 

Deryk  considered  for  a  moment. 


330  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  I've  ordered  a  private  room,"  he 
told  her.  "If  you  care  about  seeing  people,  I'll  try  to  get  a 
table  in  the  restaurant.  I  thought  the  other'd  be  more 
quiet." 

For  an  instant  Idina  looked  startled ;  then  she  coloured 
slightly. 

"Oh,  don't  alter  it,"  she  begged.  "I  expect  we  shall  have 
ever  so  many  things  to  talk  about." 

As  their  dinner  drew  to  a  close,  Deryk  asked  Idina  to 
marry  him.  There  could  have  been  nothing  of  the  unex- 
pected in  his  proposal  or  her  acceptance,  but  she  turned 
her  face  away  and  began  to  cry  quietly  the  moment  that 
she  had  given  him  her  answer. 

"It's  because  I  love  you  so !"  she  sobbed,  when  he  knelt 
beside  her,  trying  to  comfort  her  and  fearful  that  a  waiter 
would  inopportunely  burst  in  with  a  tray  of  coffee.  "Oh, 
[Deryk,  I  thought  I  should  never  be  happy  again." 

He  kissed  her  hurriedly  and  went  back  to  his  place. 

"You  mustn't  let  anyone  see  you  crying,"  he  urged  in 
agitation. 

She  dried  her  eyes  and  smiled  bravely  at  him. 

"I'm  very  obedient,  aren't  I,  Deryk  ?" 

"You  can't  begin  too  soon,"  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  I'll  do  whatever  you  tell  me  to!  I'll 
do  anything,  anything  in  the  whole  world  for  you." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  caught  hers. 

"Are  you  really  happy,  Dina  ?" 

"Oh,  wonderfully,  wonderfully  happy !  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  night  of  the  ball  at  Ripley  Court,  the  first  time  you 
kissed  me?    I've  not  been  really,  really  happy  since  then." 

As  the  waiter  served  the  coffee,  Deryk  lit  a  cigar  and 
tried  to  recover  some  appearance  of  collectedness.  His 
sense  of  perspective  was  gone,  and  he  took  time  to  appre- 
ciate what  he  had  done.  Among  the  memories  and  thoughts 
that  crowded  into  his  brain,  Idina's  "Oh,  wonderfully, 
wonderfully  happy !"  kept  recurring  like  a  refrain  of  sensu- 
ous abandonment.  The  repetition  was  an  engaging  trick 
of  emphasis;  he  loved  her  for  it,  trivial  as  it  really  was, 


SI  JEUNESSE  POUVAIT  ...  331 

and  for  the  surrender  of  soul  which  it  seemed  to  proclaim. 
It  was  a  trick  that  he  well  recollected — and  then  he  knew 
that  his  memory  was  at  fault.  He  had  learned  to  know  that 
repetition  from  the  lips  of  Lucile  Welman,  when  she  told 
him  at  Maidenhead,  months  before  their  final  parting,  that 
he  was  "breaking"  her  "poor,  poor  heart — breaking  it."  He 
remembered  the  first  time  that  he  had  noticed  her  using  it ; 
he  remembered,  too,  how  tired  of  it  he  had  grown  until  in 
one  of  their  quarrels  he  had  called  it  a  "silly  affectation." 
Then  she  had  cried,  and  he  had  apologised — as,  in  those 
days,  he  always  did,  when  she  cried.  .  .  . 

"Deryk,  he's  gone  now!  You  can  give  me  one  tiny, 
tiny  kiss." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  drew  her  into  his  arms. 

"I  wonder  how  long  you'll  care  for  me?"  he  whispered. 

**0h,  Deryk!  for  ever  and  ever," 

He  loosened  one  arm  and  smoothed  her  hair  back  from 
her  forehead. 

"It's  an  awful  thing,"  he  began  with  a  jerky  laugh,  "but 
I  suppose  every  man  who  beats  his  wife  and  every  wife  who 
runs  away  from  her  husband  always  start  like  this." 

"But,  sweetheart,  we  shan't  be  like  them!" 

Deryk  sighed. 

"I  suppose  they  always  say  that,  too.  I'm  sorry,  DIna 
child,  but  sometimes  I  seem  to  see  life  without  any  of  its 
romance  and  glamour.  And  the  world's  a  beastly  place 
then." 

"Not  our  world,  darling." 

That  night,  after  he  had  left  her  at  her  hotel,  Deryk 
telephoned  to  Yolande. 

"I've  got  some  news  for  you,"  he  began.  "Oh,  you'd 
guessed  it  already?  Well,  that  saves  me  the  trouble  of 
telling  you.  Thanks  very  much  indeed.  Oh,  I  hope  so. 
The  what?  Oh,  the  best  day's  work  I've  ever  done.  I'll 
tell  her  that.  You  saw  it  coming?  Well,  I  didn't  take 
much  trouble  to  hide  it,  did  I  ?  Good-night.  Oh,  not  at 
all !  I  wanted  you  to  know  before  anyone  else.  Thank  you 
most  awfully." 


332  MIDAS  AND  SON 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  with  a  feeling  of  flatness  and 
anti-climax  and  hunted  for  Raymond's  number  in  the  tele- 
phone directory. 

"Der)^k  Lancing  speaking.  I  say,  I  thought  you'd  be 
interested  to  hear  I've  just  got  engaged  to  Mrs.  Dawson. 
Oh,  thanks  very  much.  It's  awfully  kind  of  you.  Oh, 
only  this  evening.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  quite  hear.  Oh,  you 
saw  it  coming.  I  can't  hear.  Oh,  I  shall  certainly  tell  her 
that.  But  I  shall  see  you  before  you  leave  England.  Good- 
night and  many  thanks." 

He  depressed  the  receiver  for  a  moment  to  break  the 
connection  and  then  asked  for  a  trunk  call  to  Aston  Ripley. 

"Hats  can't  very  well  say  he  saw  it  coming,"  he  mur- 
mured.   "If  he  does,  I'll  break  the  damned  thing  off." 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHAT   COMES  OUT   IN   THE  FLESH 

"After  one  week,  man  came  to  [Twashtri],  and  said:  Lord,  this 
creature  that  you  have  given  me  makes  my  life  miserable.  She 
chatters  incessantly,  and  teases  me  beyond  endurance,  never  leav- 
ing me  alone :  and  she  require  incessant  attention,  and  takes  all  my 
time  up,  and  cries  about  nothing,  and  is  always  idle ;  and  so  I 
have  come  to  give  her  back  again,  as  I  cannot  live  with  her.  So 
Twashtri  said:  Very  well:  and  he  took  her  back.  Then  after 
another  week,  man  came  again  to  him,  and  said :  Lord,  I  find 
that  my  life  is  very  lonely  since  I  gave  you  back  that  creature. 
I  remember  how  she  used  to  dance  and  sing  to  me,  and  look  at  me 
out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  and  play  with  me,  and  cling  to  me; 
and  her  laughter  was  music,  and  she  was  beautiful  to  look  at, 
and  soft  to  touch :  so  give  her  back  to  me  again.  So  Twashtri 
said :  Very  well :  and  gave  her  back  again.  Then  after  only  three 
days,  man  came  back  to  him  again,  and  said :  Lord,  I  know  not 
how  it  is;  but  after  all,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  is 
more  of  a  trouble  than  a  pleasure  to  me:  so  please  take  her  back 
again.  But  Twashtri  said :  Out  on  you !  Be  off !  I  will  have 
no  more  of  this.  You  must  manage  how  you  can.  Then  man 
said :  But  I  cannot  live  with  her.  And  Twashtri  replied :  Neither 
could  you  live  without  her.  And  he  turned  his  back  on  man,  and 
went  on  with  his  work.  Then  man  said :  What  is  to  be  done  ? 
for  I  cannot  live  either  with   or  without  her." 

F.  W.  Bain  :    A  Digit  of  the  Moon. 


The  news  of  Deryk's  engagement,  starting  nowhere  in 
particular  and  not  visibly  assisted  on  its  course  by  anyone 
in  particular,  spread  through  London  in  a  day  and  the 
country  in  a  week.  Self-centred,  but  not  abnormally  self- 
conscious,  Deryk  was  first  of  all  surprised,  then  bewildered 
and  finally  aghast.  He  had  told  Raymond,  Yolande  and 
Hatherly  between  eleven  and  twelve  one  evening;  while 
he  was  still  in  bed,  three  illustrated  papers  begged  by  tele- 
phone to  be  favoured  with  photographs  of  Mrs.  Dawson 
and  himself;  a  bright,  pertinacious  girl  with  an  air  of  not 
being  easily  deterred  by  porters,   footmen,  secretaries  or 

333 


334  •  MIDAS  AND  SON 

confidential  servants  interviewed  him  at  length,  asking  ques- 
tions for  an  hour  and  condensing  the  results,  in  a  form  that 
made  him  blush  hotly,  into  two  excessively  personal  para- 
graphs. Simultaneously  a  torrent  of  congratulations  de- 
scended upon  him  by  telegram,  letter,  express  message  and 
telephone.  The  following  morning,  less  than  thirty-six 
hours  after  the  engagement,  the  daily  papers  were  publish- 
ing the  tidings — not  as  a  paid  advertisement  or  social  an- 
nouncement, but  as  a  matter  of  public  interest,  under  a 
leaded  title  on  the  main  news  page  with  a  column  of  Austro- 
Servian  diplomacy  on  one  side  and  the  Buckingham  Palace 
Conference  on  the  other.  The  world  was  informed  in  every 
variety  of  journalistic  setting,  from  a  staid  "Engagement 
of  Sir  Deryk  Lancing,  Bart."  to  "England's  Richest  Bache- 
lor to  Wed."  He  had  no  idea — he  kept  saying  to  himself 
and  sometimes  bemusedly  to  friends  who  ran  him  to  earth 
in  his  rooms  or  waylaid  him  at  his  club — he  had  no  idea 
that  so  many  people  knew  of  his  existence. 

For  nearly  a  week  he  had  no  time  to  go  near  his  new 
house.  A  shorthand  writer,  frantically  engaged  by  tele- 
phone from  an  agency,  helped  him  to  open  and  sort  the 
letters,  endorsing  the  congratulations  with  a  common-form 
reply  of  thanks  telegraphed  in  sheafs  of  a  hundred  at  a 
time.  Forgotten  acquaintances  at  Eton  and  Magdalen,  for- 
gotten wayfarers  encountered  he  knew  not  where,  friends 
of  his  father,  dim  personalities  whose  parties  he  had  un- 
rememberingly  attended,  all  seemed  to  know  him;  they 
seemed  to  know  him  as  a  social  duty ;  perhaps  they  quietly 
bragged  about  it— "Lancing— old  Deryk?  Oh,  Lord  yes! 
he  was  at  m'tutor's.  I  must  congratulate  the  old  man." 
Since  his  father's  death  he  had  appreciated  that  Sir  Aylmer 
was  well-known,  but  he  fought  against  the  conviction  that 
people  who  had  met  him  two  or  three  times  in  a  forgotten 
house-party  were  remembering  him  clearly,  getting  ready 
their  smiles  for  the  next  meeting.  .  ,  . 

The  news-cutting  agencies  had  gone  to  work  as  promptly 
as  before,  and  he  yielded  to  the  temptation  of  seeing  what 
was  really  being  said  about  him.     Immediately  he  found 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  335 

paragraphs  which  he  despaired  of  tracing  to  their  origin, 
photographs  whose  existence  he  had  never  suspected. 
Under  the  title  of  "The  Camera  in  Society"  he  found  him- 
self striding  through  Hyde  Park,  grinning  vacantly  in  con- 
versation with  a  man  whom  he  could  not  recognise,  worm- 
ing his  way  into  Boulter's  Lock  on  Ascot  Sunday;  the 
house  in  Pall  Mall  was  reproduced,  Ripley  Court  was  re- 
produced; with  amazement  he  discovered  a  group  taken 
when  Lord  Pebbleridge's  hounds  met  there  eighteen  months 
before,  with  himself  patting  a  horse's  withers  and  talking 
to  the  Secretary,  while  George  Oakleigh — an  unmistakable 
George  Oakleigh — lounged  in  the  doorway,  smoking  a 
cigar.  The  files  had  been  ransacked,  every  shred  of  un- 
interesting, bald,  snob-tickiing  irrelevancy  was  dragged  out 
and  reproduced:  '"Mr.  Deryk  Lancing,  who  is,  of  course, 
the  heir  of  Sir  Aylmer  Lancing,  the  well-known  million- 
aire-philanthropist," "Sir  Deryk  Lancing,  who  succeeds  to 
the  title,"  "Sir  Deryk  Lancing  and  a  friend,"  "Snapped  at 
Maidenhead;  Mr.  Deryk  Lancing."  He  looked  closely  and 
long  at  a  picture  of  Mrs.  Welman  lying  back  in  a  punt, 
half-covered  with  yielding  silk  cushions,  and  himself  rather 
inexpertly  wielding  a  pole ;  then  he  tore  it  angrily  into  small 
pieces.  A  moment  later  he  gathered  the  pieces  and  burned 
them  with  a  match,  and,  as  the  flame  died  down,  he  left  his 
work  and  hunted  in  a  despatch-box  for  a  packet  of  letters 
from  her  which  he  could  not  remember  destroying.  .  .  . 

"I  suppose  I  never  read  the  papers,"  he  rputtered  to  him- 
self. "Good  God!  I  wonder  how  much  people  really  do 
know  about  me !" 

The  new  aspect  of  himself  fascinated  him  morbidly. 
There  were  letters  from  traditional,  family  friends  whom 
he  had  dropped  because  they  bored  him :  "Dear  Sir  Deryk, 
(as  I  suppose  I  must  call  you  now),  though  we  have  seen 
so  little  of  you  in  recent  years,  .  .  ."  He  smiled  cynically 
at  the  pathetically  transparent  attempt  to  retain  or  recap- 
ture him.  The  mothers  of  several  girls  whom  Sir  Aylmer 
was  always  inviting  to  Ripley  Court  were  "so  much  inter- 
ested in  the  news  of  your  engagement";  two  of  the  girls 


22^  MIDAS  AND  SON 

themselves  were  "simply  dying  to  meet  your  wife,"  and 
one  shy  httle  note  offered  all  congratulations  and  good 
wishes  with  an  unblushing  frankness  that  disconcerted  him ; 
"you  don't  remember  me,  but  the  times  I  went  to  Ripley 
Court  are  very  happy  memories,  and  anything  that  makes 
for  your  happiness  has  my  blessing."  Deryk  tortured  his 
brain  to  remember  the  handwriting,  the  name,  anything 
about  the  woman.  Apparently  he  had  attracted  her — some 
shy  girl  to  whom  he  had  been  civil — and  she  was  honest 
enough  to  be  unreserved  about  it.  He  wondered  how  many 
others  had  worshipped  him  or  his  setting  from  a  distance. 

"I  can't  remember  paying  any  sort  of  attention  to  anyone 
bar  Dina.  I  suppose  some  of  them  think  I  treated  them 
badly,  or  their  mothers  think  I  raised  'expectations,'  or 
some  rot  of  that  kind.  I  bet  they  said  it,  too.  I  suppose  if 
I  ever  danced  with  a  girl  through  half  the  evening — those 
damned  chaperons  have  got  nothing  else  to  think  about  .  .  . 
Why  can't  people  leave  me  alone?" 

As  the  letters  and  news-cuttings  accumulated,  he  began 
to  marvel  that  the  world  had  left  him  alone  so  much  as  it 
had.  He  was  a  public  interest,  an  engrossing  speculation, 
and,  except  when  a  friend  jocosely  called  him  a  plutocrat, 
he  had  imagined  that  other  people  were  as  unconscious  of 
his  wealth  as  he  was ;  the  suspicion,  which  his  father  had 
presented  to  him  and  which  he  had  refused  to  entertain,  that 
anyone  of  any  age  or  sex  sought  his  society  because  he  was 
a  millionaire's  son,  set  his  lip  curling.  If  that  had  been 
their  first  and  abiding  conception  of  him,  at  least  they  had 
decently  veiled  their  interest.  But  the  world  had  left  him 
alone  more  than  some  people  would  say  that  he  deserved. 
The  eternal  question  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  his  life 
and  his  money  was  indirectly  asked  in  numberless  inaccu- 
rate suppositions.  He  read,  as  he  now  remembered  read- 
ing when  his  father  died,  that  "the  new  baronet  is  as  keenly 
interested  as  was  his  father  in  all  social  questions.  It  is 
an  open  secret  that  he  has  studied  them  at  first-hand  .  .  ." 
"That's  George  Oakleigh,  I  suppose,"  Deryk  commented. 
Gossipy  "Chats  about  People"  revealed  the  further  open 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  337 

secret  that  the  new  Baronet  was  preparing  a  political  ca- 
reer; "a.  constituency  'in  the  Midlands  has  been  men- 
tioned .  .  .  ";  he  learnt  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  in- 
terested in  diplomacy  and  that  at  the  time  of  his  father's 
death  he  was  proposing  to  proceed  to  Constantinople  as  an 
Honorary  Attache;  only  Sir  Aylmer's  failing  health  had 
kept  him  in  England.  He  was  likely,  too,  to  find  his  time 
almost  entirely  absorbed  by  the  control  of  the  vast  financial 
interests  which  he  had  inherited.  Alternatively,  he  was  an 
enthusiastic  antiquarian ;  while  at  Oxford,  where  he  had  a 
most  distinguished  academic  career,  and  every  year  since, 
he  had  spent  many  months  with  Dr.  Manisty,  the  well- 
known  Hellenist,  excavating  the  remains  of  Troy. 

"Poor  Felix!"  laughed  Deryk.  "They'll  call  it  Hercu- 
laneum  next  and  say  that  I  discovered  it.  I  must  be  rather 
a  disappointment  to  these  good  people!" 

He  ceased  to  laugh  as  the  new  picture  formed  itself  in  his 
mind.  A  man  had  a  right  to  grow  cynical,  impatient,  re- 
sentful, when  he  was  regarded  as  the  prize  in  a  matrimo- 
nial lottery  open  to  all-comers ;  he  was  only  seen  as  a  specu- 
lation, however,  by  people  who  did  not  count.  A  larger  and 
more  sober  body  of  critics  looked  upon  him  as  a  man 
charged  with  a  trust  and  a  mission.  They  were  tolerant ;  so 
far  as  the  money  was  concerned,  they  were  content  with 
his  signing  banker's  orders  for  all  his  father's  charities ; 
but  there  was  an  inferential  criticism  in  their  curiosity 
about  him.  They  expected  him  to  do  something  serious, 
devoted  and  heroic  with  his  unique  position;  they  hinted 
that  there  were  few  things  that  a  man  in  his  position  could 
not  do  and  then  inventoried  his  attainments  and  experience 
to  drive  the  hint  home.  ... 

"H  they'd  suggest  anything!"  he  exclaimed  impatiently. 
"I'm  not  going  to  waste  my  life  tramping  backwards  and 
forwards  to  a  division  lobby  on  some  rotten  Plural  Voting 
Bill.  Besides,  anyone  can  do  that,  and  they  keep  billing  me 
for  a  star  turn  of  some  kind." 

He  carried  his  impatience  out  to  lunch  with  him,  sum- 
marily charging  the  shorthand-writer  to  open  all  letters  and 


338  MIDAS  AND  SON 

telegrams,  burn  all  circulars,  catalogues  and  other  com- 
munications dealing  with  plate,  jewellery,  furs,  furniture,, 
houses  in  town  and  country  and  insurance  proposals  and 
to  reply  by  wire  to  all  further  congratulations, 

"I  suppose  the  whole  racket  will  start  again  when  people 
begin  sending  me  wedding  presents,"  he  grumbled  to  Idina, 
after  describing  the  morning's  work.  "Can't  we  put  a 
stopper  on  that  by  saying  we  don't  want  any?  It  is  rather 
ridiculous  for  twenty-five  different  people  to  send  me  twen- 
ty-five perfectly  superfluous  cigarette-boxes ;  if  I  want  one, 
they  know  perfectly  well  that  I  can  afford  to  buy  it.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  don't;  I  imagine  I've  got  everything  in 
the  world  that  a  man  could  have."  A  sudden  wistfulness 
came  into  his  eyes.  "You're  in  the  same  boat  now,  Dina, 
and  I  hope  you'll  like  it  more  than  I  do.  I  don't  feel  I  shall 
ever  get  a  new  thrill,  I've — I've  had  everything  and  been 
everywhere  and  met  everybody." 

Idina  looked  at  him  with  a  reproachfulness  which  she 
tried  to  pretend  was  affected. 

"That's  not  very  complimentary  to  me,  darling!"  she 
protested. 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  last  time  we  lunched  together," 
he  answered  slowly.  "Do  you  remember  coming  up  from 
the  country?  Well,  then  I  did  have  to  think  a  good  many 
times  before  I  ordered  myself  a  liqueur  with  my  coffee — 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  knocked  off  coffee,  cigars,  everything 
of  that  kind,  the  day  I  left  home.  It  was  much  more  fun, 
you  know,  when  you  did  stand  yourself  a  treat.  But, 
getting  back,  can't  we  advertise  to  people  that  we  don't 
want  their  beastly  presents?" 

Idina's  m.ind  retained  a  vivid  picture  of  her  first  mar- 
riage, unheralded,  unblessed,  without  one  dear,  fatuous 
wedding-expert  to  crack  absurd  jokes,  to  make  tender, 
whispered  speeches  and,  perhaps,  to  grow  suddenly  silent 
and  misty-eyed.  .  .  . 

"People  pretend  to  be  very  blase  about  weddings,"  she 
said,  "but  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  like  them.     They  like 


WHAT  COMES  OUT-  IN  THE  FLESH  339 

choosing  presents  and  giving  them;  I  don't  think  they'd 
care  to  be  told  their  presents  weren't  wanted." 

"But  we're  in  rather  a  different  position.  We  don't  want 
to  be  flooded  with  tea-knives  and  thermos  flasks."  Idina 
thought  well  to  make  no  answer,  and  he  followed  out  his 
own  thoughts,  "I  don't  understand  about  weddings.  I 
wouldn't  go  to  one  of  my  own  free  will,  if  you  paid  me 
to,  but,  whenever  I  have  to  put  in  an  appearance,  I  see 
crowds  of  girls  with  their  eyes  bulging  out  of  their  heads 
and  dear  old  boys  and  their  wives  simply  working  them- 
selves up  to  cry  at  the  right  moment.  It  can't  be  the  cham- 
pagne, because  that's  always  undrinkable,  and  it's  depraved 
to  drink  champagne  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  I 
suppose,  when  people  get  married,  it's  the  most  glorious 
moment  of  their  lives ;  and  the  girls  go,  because  they  hope 
their  turn's  coming,  and  the  old  people,  because  they  like 
to  be  reminded  of  the  possibilities  of  life  as  they  saw  them 
before  they  became  disillusionised." 

Idina  thought  of  married  life,  as  she  had  known  it  for 
eight  months.  For  Deryk,  who  had  no  excuse  for  disillu- 
sion, to  talk  like  that  seemed  to  drive  a  knife  into  her  and 
twist  it  in  the  wound. 

"People  needn't  be  disillusionised  always,  need  they?" 
she  suggested  timidly, 

Deryk  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  began  to  cut  up  the 
meat  on  his  plate, 

"The  honeymoon  ecstasy  doesn't  seem  to  last  much  be- 
yond the  honeymoon,"  he  opined.  "I  suppose,  when  tlie 
froth's  been  blown  away  and  you  come  to  grips,  when  you 
realise  the  extraordinary  permanence  of  marriage,  when  all 
the  little  mannerisms  that  you  hardly  noticed  before,  be- 
cause you  were  so  infatuated,  or  that  you  may  have  noticed 
and  rather  liked,  when  they  begin  to  get  on  your 
nerves " 

Idina  leant  across  the  table  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
wrist,  looking  at  him  with  a  strained  smile. 

"I  suppose  it  is  really,  really  best  to  think  of  all  this 
before  it's  too  late  ?"  she  asked. 


340  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"My  dear,  you'll  find  that  I'm  anything  but  easy  to  get 
on  with  when  you  see  me  all  day  and  every  day,  Fve  got 
no  illusions  about  myself.  I  know  myself  rather  well; 
I'm  nervy,  selfish " 

Idina  shook  her  head  at  him,  and  her  eyes  softened. 

"Not  selfish,  darling.  Or  else  you  must  know  yourself 
better  than  I  know  you.  Just  the  least  little  bit  obstinate, 
the  least  little  bit  wilful,  but  wonderfully,  wonderfully  gen- 
erous." She  paused  abruptly  and  stared  at  her  plate  until 
her  voice  was  grown  steady  again.  "I  never  thought  any- 
body coidd  be  so  generous  until — that  night.  We  bumped 
into  each  other  and  began  speaking  like  machines,  but,  when 
I  had  time  to — to  appreciate,  I  expected  you  to  hit  me  in 
the  face,  I  expected  it.  And  I  shouldn't  have  blamed  you. 
You  see, — I  knew  everything,  I'd  met  Yolande  in  Vienna 
and  I  knew  what  you  thought  of  me.  I  felt  like  a  dog 
waiting  to  be  beaten." 

Deryk  laughed  self-consciously. 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  much  given  to  hitting  women  in 
the  face,"  he  said.  The  words,  on  reflection,  seemed  well 
chosen ;  there  had  been  moments  of  exasperation  in  his  life 
with  Lucile  Welman,  when  he  felt  restrained  from  nothing 
except  physical  violence.  A  dozen  times,  as  he  tried  to 
burst  away  from  her  and  she  begged  him  with  her  prac- 
tised, professional  tear  in  the  voice  not  to  break  her  heart, 
he  had  stood  trembling  and  setting  together  exquisitely 
selected  words  from  a  vocabulary  of  a  sudden  enriched, 
picturing  their  efifect  and  exulting  in  her  imagined,  moan- 
ing collapse.  Somewhere  within  him  he  felt  a  sinister, 
volcanic  force  of  cruelty,  to  be  released  whenever  his  un- 
stable grip  on  his  own  plunging  nerves  relaxed.  But  he 
had  never  yet,  literally  or  metaphorically,  hit  a  woman  in 
the  face.  "And  I — by  the  way,  I'm  never  going  to  touch 
on  this  subject  again — it  may  be  vanity,  but,  knowing  you 
as  long  and  as  well  as  I  did,  I  never  thought  you'd  chucked 
me  aside  to  marry  him  for  the  fun  of  the  thing." 

Idina  lowered  her  eyes  again. 

"We  won't  talk  about  this,"  she  said.     "But  I  will  just 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  341 

say  that  I  was  really,  really  out  of  my  mind  that  night, 
and  you  behaved  like" — she  hesitated  for  a  word — • 
"like  a  gentleman.  You're  very,  very  chivalrous,  Deryk 
dear;  you  always  have  been.  You  can  look  a  woman  in  the 
eyes " 

"I  shouldn't  call  that  much  of  a  test,"  he  Interrupted 
swiftly  and  with  obvious  distaste  for  the  turn  the  conver- 
sation was  taking. 

"Ah,  but  I  know !  You've  always,  always  been  the  soul 
of  chivalry " 

"I've  always,  always  had  every,  every  kind  of  virtue," 
he  interrupted  again.  Her  trick  of  repetition  was  irritat- 
ing, and  he  hoped  to  laugh  her  out  of  it ;  otherwise  it  was 
difficult  to  see  how  she  was  to  be  broken  of  the  habit. 

"I'll  promise  not  to  flatter  you,  if  you'll  promise  not  to 
run  yourself  down,"  she  proposed.  "I  don't  say  you're  per- 
fect; I'm  afraid  I'm  not  fit  to  marry  anyone  who's  perfect, 
but  you're  very,  very  magnanimous." 

Deryk  gave  an  irrepressible  shiver  and  forced  her  atten- 
tion back  to  their  wedding  arrangements.  The  marriage 
was  to  take  place  as  soon  as  a  year  had  elapsed  from  Sid- 
ney's death. 

"You  don't  want  to  make  a  fashionable  circus  of  it?" 
he  asked  disparagingly. 

"I'll  do  whatever  you  like,  darling." 

"Oh,  I  vote  for  no  presents,  no  advertisement,  no  cere- 
mony in  church — just  shove  a  notice  in  the  'Times'  to 
warn  people  that  we're  married  and  then  go  to  Ripley  Court 
for  our  honeymoon.  It'll  be  far  more  comfortable  than  a 
verminous  hotel  in  Rome  or  any  of  the  usual  places."  Idina 
was  silent  for  so  long  that  his  conscience  grew  uneasy. 
"You  think  that'll  be  a  bit  flat?"  he  suggested  more  kindly. 
"Well,  it's  for  you  to  decide.     If  you  want  a  show " 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  a  'show,'  as  you  call  it,"  she  protested. 
"I'll— I'll  do  anything  you  like." 

"But  what  d'you  want  to  do?" 

A  quaver  came  into  her  voice,  as  she  tried  to  answer. 


342 


MIDAS  AND  SON 


"I  suppose  I'm  like  other  people,"  she  said.  "I  want  it 
to  be  the  most  glorious  moment  of  our  lives." 

Deryk  smiled  indulgently  and  began  to  talk  about  their 
engagements  for  the  coming  week.  Idina  had  grown  very 
sentimental  of  late — or  he  was  beginning  to  take  a  worldly, 
common-sense  view  of  life.  But  she  was  eminently  trac- 
table ;  too  tractable,  perhaps ;  life  would  be  intolerable,  if 
she  met  every  proposal,  damned  the  flow  of  any  discussion 
with  an  automatic  "I'll  do  whatever  you  like."  For  com- 
panionship and  sympathy  a  man  might  as  well  live  with  a 
gramaphone. 

"It  shall  be — the  most  glorious,"  he  assented.  "There's 
no  hurry  yet  awhile,  but  you  say  exactly  what  you  want 
done,  and  it  shall  be  arranged." 

When  luncheon  was  over,  he  hurried  home  and  tele- 
phoned for  his  car  to  take  him  to  Aston  Ripley.  Hatherly 
was  there,  immersed  in  business  and  clamouring  for  his 
presence ;  as  he  could  not  avoid  the  interview  longer,  he 
was  at  least  resolved  to  make  one  do  duty  for  two  and 
to  discuss  the  draft  of  his  new  will.  For  six  months  Ray- 
mond Stornaway  had  been  heir  to  the  estate,  and  Deryk 
had  now  to  arrange  for  Idina  to  be  the  beneficiary  and  for 
a  rigorous  trust  to  be  established.  It  must  all  be  strangely 
similar  to  what  his  father  had  done  six  and  twenty  years 
before;  in  all  probability  the  original  instrument,  with 
trifling  modifications,  could  be  used  again — like  causes  pro- 
ducing like  effects  and  demanding  like  precautions.  In  an- 
other twenty-six  years  another  young  Lancing  might  well 
be  found  scowling  on  the  hearth-rug  and  demanding  his 
rights.  The  new  trust  would  have  to  be  erected,  of  course, 
but  it  was  an  ironic  commentary  if  trust  succeeded  trust 
and  the  beneficiaries  found  no  way  of  even  planing  the 
edges  of  the  estate.  .  .  . 

He  remembered  that  he  had  not  discussed  with  Idina 
the  thoughts  that  had  passed  through  his  mind  after  read- 
ing his  morning  batch  of  news-cuttings.  Something  would 
really  have  to  be  done.  To  begin  with,  as  a  married  man 
he  would  find  his   liberty   much  curtailed.     Whether  his 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  343 

wife  had  a  family  or  not,  he  would  no  longer  be  able  to 
dash  off  for  a  couple  of  months  to  Asia  Minor,  a  couple 
of  years  elsewhere;  his  life  henceforth  would  be  anchored 
to  England ;  with  every  day  that  passed  it  would  tend  more 
and  more  to  become  a  middle-aged  routine — breakfast,  the 
letters  and  papers,  luncheon,  a  blank  until  dinner,  a  blank 
after  dinner  (they  could  not  dine  out,  give  parties  or  go 
to  a  theatre  every  night),  bed,  breakfast,  the  letters  and 
papers.  .  .  . 

"You've  got  mighty  little  to  say  for  yourself,"  com- 
mented Hatherly  that  evening,  when  Deryk  had  eaten  three 
courses  in  unbroken  silence. 

"I  was  thinking  how  grateful  I  should  be  to  anyone  who 
suggested  something  that  I've  never  done  before." 

"Well,  you've  never  been  married  before." 

"I  wonder  if  marriage  does  make  all  the  difference  that 
people  pretend.  Oh !  it's  no  use  your  talking,  Hats ;  you're 
a  bachelor,  too." 


When  Deryk  returned  to  town,  he  was  surprised  to  hear 
that  Idina  had  left  suddenly  for  the  country.  "London  is 
getting  so  hot,"  she  wrote  in  explanation,  "but  I  will  come 
back  whenever  you  want  me.  I'm  afraid  your  visit  to 
Ripley  Court  was  too  short  to  do  you  much  good ;  and  I'm 
sure  you  want  a  little  bit  of  a  holiday.  You  seemed  so 
tired  and  nervous  at  lunch.  .  .  ." 

He  had  arrived  in  London  at  noon  with  a  vista  of  ap- 
pointments before  him,  but,  on  receiving  her  note,  he 
turned  the  car's  head  and  pursued  her  to  the  south  coast, 
filled  with  penitence  and  irritation  at  feeling  penitent.  He 
was  neither  nervous  nor  tired,  and  all  that  she  meant  was 
that  she  had  not  enjoyed  the  luncheon ;  assuredly  it  was 
not  his  lucky  meal,  they  always  started  with  a  general  dis- 
cussion, which  invariably  became  stripped  of  everything 
but  its  personal  application.  He  remembered  a  furtive 
meal  which  he  had  given  her  fifteen  months  before,  when 
she  very  sweetly  and  quite  recklessly  urged  him  to  marry 


344 


MIDAS  AND  SON 


her  at  once  and — well — trust  to  luck  with  his  father; 
he  had  explained  that  he  was  fighting  his  father  ©n  the 
principle  of  financial  independence  and  that  she  was  only 
a  peg,  a  text,  a  casus  belli;  if  she  were  dead  and  buried, 
he  would  have  to  go  on  fighting  just  the  same.  For 
some  reason  she  never  forgot  or  forgave  his  perfectly 
innocent  remark ;  it  was  dragged  up  and  thrown  back  at 
him  on  at  least  three  occasions  that  he  could  remem- 
ber .  ,  ,  And  now,  apparently,  he  had  put  his  foot  into 
it  again;  Idina  had  winced  and  bitten  her  lip  when  he 
said — for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  remember  what 
he  had  said ;  it  was  something  about  a  quiet  wed- 
ding .  .  .  He  must  go  and  kiss  the  tears  away,  he  sup- 
posed, but  she  really  (or  really,  really)  must  try  to  keep 
conversation  impersonal.  Otherwise  it  became  im- 
possible. .  .  . 

He  arrived  at  the  fishing  village  of  Pensington  at  seven 
o'clock  on  a  mid-July  evening,  at  a  moment  of  sensible 
stillness  when  the  drowsy  heat  of  the  day  hung  between 
the  cottages  of  the  single  street,  over  the  dilapidated 
jetty  and  shingle-clad  beach,  waiting  and  panting  for  a 
sea-breeze  to  arise  and  blow  cool  air  through  the  haze  of 
somnolence.  The  narrow  street  checked  his  long,  low- 
bodied  car,  and  he  went  on  foot  through  a  hundred  yards 
of  dusty  unevenness,  enquiring  the  way  of  every  slow- 
speaking  loiterer,  until  a  sudden  turn  bared  the  sea  to 
his  eyes,  and  he  caught  sight  of  a  figure  in  a  white  dress 
and  long,  chamois  gardening-gloves  vanishing  and  reap- 
pearing behind  a  dense,  eight-foot  hedge. 

He  paused  to  look  through  a  spy-hole  between  two 
bushes  and  whispered  above  the  finality  of  her  scissors' 
"clip-clip-c/f/',"  "Dee-eena !"  She  started  at  the  second 
repetition,  but  from  her  side  the  hedge  was  impenetrable, 
and  he  had  to  run  round  to  the  crazy  gate.  Idina  stood 
motionless,  watching  his  impatient  fumblings  with  the 
broken  latch;  then  she  plucked  off  her  gloves  and  hurried 
forward  to  welcome  him  with  bare  arms  outstretched. 

"My  darling,  I  never  expected  to  see  you!" 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  345 

The  plaintive  hunger  in  her  voice  made  him  bend  down 
and  redouble  his  concentration  on  the  rusty  hasp. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me?"  he  asked,  looking  up  with 
a  smile  and  collecting  himself  before  coming  in  to  the  gar- 
den. 

"You  know  I  am,  Deryk,  but  there's  nothing  wrong,  is 
there?" 

He  laughed  to  share  and  appreciate  her  pleasure. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it's  wrong  for  me  to  want  to 
see  you,"  he  said.  "That's  the  only  reason  I  came  here 
at  a  time  when  I'm  run  off  my  legs  in  London.  This 
strikes  me  as  an  agreeably  restful  spot,  Dina.  Have  you 
got  any  food  in  the  house,  and  is  there  an  inn  or  any 
place  where  I  can  get  a  reasonably  clean  bed?  Two  beds 
would  be  useful,  because  I've  got  the  shuvver  here." 

Her  surprise  and  delight  prevented  her  doing  anything 
but  follow  him  with  her  eyes,  as  he  sauntered  with  over- 
elaborate  ease  round  the  garden  or  stood  staring  up  at 
the  honey-coloured  thatch  and  half-timber  of  her  cottage. 

"The  'Fisherman's  Arms',"  she  began  at  length  un- 
certainly. "Dearest,  how  long  are  you  going  to  stay 
here?" 

"How  long  would  you  like  me?"  he  asked  in  turn.  "I 
haven't  got  so  much  as  a  razor  or  tooth-brush." 

"As  if  that  mattered!" 

He  turned  suddenly  and  caught  her  by  the  wrists,  rais- 
ing her  hands  to  his  lips  and  kissing  the  palms.  "Sweet- 
heart, they're  all  earthy!"  Idina  protested  feebly.  For 
answer  he  kissed  them  again  and  slipped  his  arm  round 
her  waist. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me?"  he  whispered  again.  "I 
oughtn't  to  be  here  and  I  can't  stay,  but  I  thought  I  must 
come  down  for  a  few  hours.  Our  lunch  wasn't  much 
of  a  success  the  other  day,  I  was  in  one  of  my  clear- 
sighted, analytical  moods,  which  I  suppose  must  always 
seem  rather  unsympathetic  to  other  people.  Say  you 
forgive  me,   Dina." 


346  MIDAS  AND  SON 

She  drew  down  his  head  to  a  level  with  her  own,  and 
her  warm  breath  struck  softly  on  his  ear. 

"Darling,  darling  Deryk!  you  know  I  don't  mind  what 
you  say  or  do  as  long  as  I'm  with  you.  You  can  play 
King  John  and  the  Jews,  if  you  like,  and  pull  out  my 
teeth  one  by  one — for  every  hour  you  stay  here!  Only 
I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  love  me  any  longer,  if  I  weren't 
pretty." 

Deryk  disengaged  his  arm  and  turned  her  head  until 
he  could  look  squarely  into  her  face. 

"You're  wonderfully  beautiful,  child,"  he  said  slowly, 
as  though  he  were  making  the  discovery  for  the  first 
time.  "You're  so  dainty  and  young  and  innocent,  you've 
never  grown  up,  you're  like  a  girl  in  a  convent,  with 
large,  enquiring  eyes  and  a  little  wistful  dimple  of  a 
mouth  .  .  .  I'm  not  wholly  bad  and  assuredly  I'm  not 
wholly  good,  but,  if  I  were  a  sort  of  Galahad,  I  should 
adore  you  like  a  Madonna — and,  if  I  were  a  bit  worse 
than  I  am,  I  think  I  should  never  be  satisfied  till  I'd 
broken  you,  spoiled  you,  made  you  as  vile  as  I  should 
be."  He  paused  at  the  startled,  uncomprehending  look 
in  her  eyes.  "You  don't  understand,  Dina;  there's  a 
lot  of  things  you  don't  understand.  When  you — well, 
let's  say,  before  I  met  you  again — I  went  off  the  rails 
pretty  considerably.  For  two,  three — I  don't  know  how 
many  months  it  was,  I  tried  to  forget " 

Idina  threw  her  arms  round  him. 

"Go  on  forgetting,  sweetheart,"  she  gently  urged.  "I 
don't  want  to  hear,  I  shouldn't  believe  you,  if  you  told 
me.  To  me  you'll  always  be  brave,  beautiful,  generous 
— oh,  it's  true,  darling,  it's  true,  even  if  you  don't  like  me 
to  tell  you." 

Deryk  had  broken  from  her  embrace  and  was  idly 
picking  dead  blooms  off  a  standard  rose-tree.  Being  in 
love  was  an  exquisite  illusion,  no  doubt,  but  it  should 
always  be  regarded  as  an  illusion ;  a  drunken  man  should 
never  be  so  drunk  as  not  to  know  that  he  was  drunk. 
With  genuine,  wistful  concern  he  tried  to  imagine  what 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  347 

kind  of  awakening  lay  ahead  of  Idina,  if  she  tried  to 
keep  him  on  his  present  pinnacle ;  she  would  discover 
that  they  thought  differently  on  a  thousand  subjects, 
that,  however  good  or  bad  his  case,  he  could  beat  her  by 
skill  of  dialectic  or  massed  array  of  information;  and 
he  could  not  stand  much  graceful  surrender  or  many 
repetitions  of  "Yes,  darling,  you're  always  right"  or  "Noth- 
ing matters  so  long  as  you  love  me."  That  sort  of  thing 
palled  and  cloyed.  And,  however  much  he  loved  her,  he 
would  be  like  other  husbands  in  broad  outline ;  there  was  no 
blinking  the  certainty  that,  when  the  honeymoon  phase  was 
ended,  they  w^ould  occasionally  irritate  each  other — like 
any  other  husband  and  wife, — there  might  be  petulant 
words,  as  they  tried  to  rub  off  their  angularity.  Was  she 
going  to  say,  like  people  on  the  stage,  "You've  ceased  to 
love  me?" 

Her  hands  stole  timidly  round  his  shoulders  again. 

"Sweetheart,  I've  said  something  to  upset  you !  You're 
not  angry  with  me?" 

Deryk  found  his  voice  hard  to  control. 

"My  beloved  child,  why  should  I  be  angry  with  you?  I 
suppose  I  had  another  of  my  desolating  flashes  of  second- 
sight  .  .  .  What  pitiful  fools  we  are  in  this  world!  Do 
we  really  think  that  all  eternity  will  be  like  this  moment" — 
he  swept  his  arm  agitatedly  round — "roses,  and  a  smell  of 
honey-suckle,  and  an  orange-coloured  sun,  and  just  a  hint 
of  the  sea  murmuring  in  the  distance  to  remind  us  that 
the  world  is  not  standing  still?    Do  we  really ?" 

"Really,  really!"  she  interrupted  in  a  tremulous  whisper. 
"I  couldn't  bear  it,  if  I  didn't!" 

Der\'k  looked  compassionately  into  her  vipturned  face 
and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"This  is  all  very  well,"  he  said  with  a  short  laugh,  "but 
I'm  not  going  to  sleep  under  a  hedge,  and,  if  I  don't  find 
a  room  somewhere,  there'll  be  trouble." 

They  dined  that  night  by  moonlight,  sitting  on  the  tiny 
lawn  in  front  of  the  cottage,  silent  or  stilted  as  long  as 
Idina's  country-bred  cook  was  bustling  importantly  to  and 


348  MIDAS  AND  SON 

fro  with  newly  caught  soles,  grilled  ham  and  home-made 
cheese.  Deryk  drank  cider  out  of  a  dented  pewter  tankard 
and,  when  dinner  was  over,  threw  himself  on  to  the  crum- 
bling, warm  earth  and  lazily  filled  a  pipe.  A  film  of  dusk 
had  spread  over  the  garden  with  the  dropping  of  the  day- 
light, and  the  sea,  changed  from  its  afternoon  blue  to  the 
likeness  of  molten  lead,  seemed  banked  up  and  hesitating, 
as  the  tide  waited  for  its  signal  to  turn.  Overhead  the  low- 
circling  bats  passed  and  repassed  with  a  whirring  beat  of 
wing ;  all  else  was  silent,  and  Idina  was  afraid  to  violate  it. 
She  wanted  to  tell  him  how  his  ruthless  commonsense  the 
previous  day  had  hurt  her — in  order  that  she  might  tell 
him  that  the  wound  was  healed  by  his  sweet,  unexpected 
appearance.  His  love  for  her  took  so  much  for  granted 
and  had  itself  to  be  so  much  taken  for  granted;  with  his 
ignorance  of  women  and  self-conscious  contempt  for  senti^- 
ment,  he  never  understood  through  how  many  moods  a 
woman  could  pass,  how  quickly  the  moods  changed ;  nor, 
until  that  night,  had  he  shewn  himself  conscious  of  the 
meaning  to  a  woman  of  a  timely,  meaningless  endearment 
or  caress.  His  power  of  fierce  pity  and  obstinate  love 
was  checked  by  fear  of  seeming  weakness,  as  though  he 
dreaded  advantage  being  taken  of  an  open  lapse  into  natu- 
ral tenderness.  His  kindliness  was  as  Procrustean  as  his 
father's ;  she  wondered  apprehensively  whether  the  lapses 
would  grow  more  and  more  infrequent  until  he  took  on  the 
inexorable  sternness  which  she  had  once  seen  on  Sir 
Aylmer's  face  in  the  chapel  of  Ripley  Court. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  could  stay  here  all  my  life,"  Deryk 
drawled  lazily  between  grateful,  slow  draws  at  his  pipe. 

Idina  dropped  on  her  knees  behind  him  and  lifted  his 
head  into  her  lap. 

"Why  don't  you,  darling?"  she  asked. 

"A  bit  cramped,  I'm  afraid." 

"We  should  be  nice  and  near  together,"  she  laughed; 
then,  with  whimsical  seriousness,  "Mr.  Stornaway  sold  my 
house  in  Sussex  and  got  rid  of  the  lease  of  the  one  in 
London.     I  was  going  to  live  here;  then,  when  you  asked 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  349 

me  to  marry  you,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  sell  this,  too, 
though  I'd  only  had  it  for  a  few  weeks.  I  don't  think  I 
shall  sell  it  now,  Deryk;  I  shall  keep  it  to  remind  me  of 
the  beautiful  present  you  made  me  by  coming  here  to-day. 
And,  if  ever  we  get  tired  of  living  in  big  houses  or  if  we 
feel  that  people  are  swarming  round  us  and  forcing  us 
apart,  we'll  come  down  here  for  a  month  or  a  week  or  a 
day,  even,  and  recapture  all  the  magic,  all  the  scent  and 
warmth  .  .  .  Deryk  dear,  have  you  ever  wanted  to  cry 
just  because  you  were  so  happy  that  you  didn't  feel  you 
could  bear  any  more?  Before  I  married — just  before,  you 
know — I  thought  I  should  never  be  happy  again ;  something 
seemed  to  have  been  killed  in  me.  Perhaps  you  don't  know 
that  I'm  very  vain  and  I  used  to  spend,  oh!  infinite  time 
and  trouble  trying  to  make  my  hair  look  nice  and  trying  to 
keep  my  hands  soft  and  white.  It  wasn't  all  for  myself; 
I  wanted  to  please  you,  I've  always  wanted  to  please  you. 
Once,  when  you  came  home  from  school  and  told  me 
I'd  got  skinny  legs,  I  locked  myself  up  with  a  medical  dic- 
tionary of  father's  and  solemnly  took  to  gorging  myself 
on  cream  and  suet  puddings  in  the  hope  of  getting  fat  .  .  . 
Dear  Deryk!  if  you  only  knew  how  proud  you  made  me 
one  Christmas  by  looking  me  slowly  up  and  down  and  tell- 
ing me  that  I  was  wearing  "quite  a  decent  dress !"  The 
next  three  dresses  were  exactly  the  same,  and  you  nearly 
broke  my  heart  at  the  end  of  your  first  term  at  Oxford, 
when  you  thought  you  really  knew  something  about  girls' 
dresses  and  told  me  that  pink  didn't  suit  me  and  I  must 
never  wear  pink  again.  I  did  want  to  please  you  so  badly, 
but,  when  I  thought  you'd  given  up  caring  for  me,  I  simply 
didn't  mind  what  happened  to  me ;  it  was  nothing  but  habit 
that  made  me  do  my  hair  or  put  my  hat  on  right  way  round. 
Did  you  bother  to  see  what  I  was  wearing  on  the  night 
when  we  met  at  Yolande's  ?  Ah,  you're  not  very  observant 
even  now,  dear,  but  Yolande  took  me  on  one  side  and  bul- 
lied me  and  said  I  looked  a  fright  and  that  she  wouldn't 
go  on  knowing  me,  if  I  didn't  take  some  pride  in  my  ap- 
pearance.   I  hardly  dared  to  come  to  the  Carlton  with  you. 


350  MIDAS  AND  SON 

but  I  have  taken  some  pride  in  myself  since  tliat.  I'm 
afraid  it  wasn't  for  dear  Yolande's  sake,  though.  Some- 
thing came  to  life  again  inside  me."  She  stopped  with  a 
break  in  her  voice  and  bent  down  to  kiss  his  half-closed 
eyelids.  "Sweetheart,  I  do  so  want  to  cry;  and  you'll 
hate  me,  if  I  do." 

Deryk  stretched  one  hand  backwards  over  his  head  and 
caught  her  fingers  in  his  own.  "Go  on  talking  instead," 
he  suggested.  "I  like  listening,  and  you  make  love  so 
much  better  than  I  should." 

"Make  love?  Ah,  dear,  I'm  talking  like  this  because  I 
can't  help  it,  because  my  love  for  you  is  overflowing,  be- 
cause my  heart's  not  large  enough  to  hold  it  all.  I  am 
worth  coming  eighty  miles  to  see,  aren't  I  ?  And  you  won't 
go  back  just  yet?  I'll  take  the  most  wonderful  care  of  you, 
if  you'll  stay ;  we  shall  bathe  and  sit  drying  in  the  sun  all 
day,  and  at  night  you  shall  come  here  under  the  moon  and 
sleep  on  the  warm  earth  with  my  breast  as  a  pillow.  And 
I'll  watch  over  you  and  send  you  sweet  dreams  and  pray  for 
you,  oh !  and  thank  God  for  you,  Deryk !  My  darling,  why 
need  you  ever  go  away  again  ?" 

The  long-awaited  sea-breeze  was  blowing  in  with  gusty 
puffs,  diluting  and  dispersing  the  bank  of  warmth  that 
had  been  accumulating  all  day.  Deryk  shivered  involun- 
tarily all  through  his  body. 

"  'Fraid  your  scheme  rather  leaves  out  the  English  cli- 
mate," he  commented.  "My  dear,  I'm  getting  cold  and 
I'm  sure  we  both  ought  to  be  in  bed.    What's  the  time?" 

Idina  looked  at  the  watch  on  his  wrist  for  the  sake  of  an 
excuse  to  kiss  his  hand. 

"Dear,  it's  only  ten.    You  never  go  to  bed  at  ten." 

'1  shall  to-night." 

"Your  one  night  with  me?  Ah,  darling,  don't  get  up! 
Stay  where  you  are  for  just  five  minutes,  because  I  ask  you 
to!" 

Deryk  had  struggled  stiffly  to  his  feet,  but  she  knelt  up- 
right and  clasped  her  arms  round  his  knees,  drawing  him 
to  her  and  begging  him  in  whispers  not  to  go.     He  tried 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  351 

to  disengage  her  hands  without  hurting  her,  laughing  and 
making  game  of  her  efforts  that  he  might  not  allow  a 
strain  of  irritation  to  appear.  One  could  rather  overdo 
this  love-making;  he  was  tired,  his  mood  had  broken,  and 
in  rapidly  strengthening  reaction  he  felt  that  the  whole 
evening  had  been  childish ;  that,  however,  could  not  be  al- 
tered, though  it  might  be  avoided ;  but  he  was  going  to 
bed  now.  He  had  said  it ;  he  could  hardly  imagine  a  power 
strong  enough  to  detain  him ;  certainly  he  could  never 
begin  doing  or  not  doing  things  "because  I  ask  you  to"; 
there  was  no  end  to  that,  and  the  appetite  would  grow  with 
the  eating.  ,  .  . 

Her  hands  dropped  with  reproachful  limpness  to  her 
sides.  Attitude  and  expression  teased  Deryk's  irritated 
nerves  and  made  him  feel  that  she  was  behaving  like  a 
child. 

"Well,  I  must  go  to  bed,"  he  told  her  abruptly,  trying 
afterwards  to  cloak  the  harshness  of  his  tone  with  a  parade 
of  stretching  and  yawning. 

"Are  you  going  to  bathe  to-morrow?"  she  asked.  "The 
sea's  lovely  in  the  morning.  You  could  call  for  me  on  your 
way  down ;  I  usually  go  at  about  eight." 

He  took  ample  time  to  consider,  as  he  filled  his  final 
pipe. 

"I'll  come,  if  I  can  get  anything  to  wear,"  he  answered, 
patting  her  cheek.  "Good-night,  Dina.  You  see  that  I 
can't  keep  away  from  you  for  very  long." 

"My  darling,  I  never  want  you  to  be  away  from  me  at 
all !" 

Deryk  slept  that  night  in  a  white-washed  attic  with  waves 
of  lavender  blowing  through  the  casements  and  a  sound  of 
scampering  mice  behind  the  wainscoting.  He  awoke  to 
find  the  sun  shining  on  to  his  face  and  the  room  full  of 
the  drowsy  hum  of  bees  from  the  garden  below.  Idina  was 
awaiting  him  on  her  lawn  in  blue  peignoir,  bathing  costume 
and  cap,  with  blue  sandals  laced  criss-cross  to  the  knees ; 
the  night's  rest  in  the  fragrant  air  had  stilled  the  dancing 
of  his  nerves;  he  gave  her  twenty  yards'  start,  and  they 


352  MIDAS  AND  SON 

raced,  laughing  and  shouting,  down  the  cliff  path  and  a 
hundred  yards  through  the  creaming  surf  until  he  overtook 
her  and  bent  her  head  back  to  receive  his  kiss.  She  looked 
more  a  child  than  ever  v^ith  the  wet  gown  clinging  to  her 
slender  body  and  her  eyes  gleaming  with  happiness  and 
joy  of  existence  in  the  sunshine. 

"Did  you  sleep  well,  sweetheart?"  she  panted.  "You 
ought  to  have,  because  you  kept  me  waiting  an  hour." 

"If  I'd  known  what  you  were  going  to  look  like,  I'd  have 
turned  up  considerably  earlier,"  he  answered  with  bois- 
terous good-humour. 

Idina  sat  down  in  two  feet  of  water  with  arms  out- 
stretched, rising  and  sinking  with  the  rhythmic  undulation 
of  the  waves. 

"You're  not  going  back,  are  you,  Deryk?"  she  coaxed. 
"I  should  like  our  life  to  be  always  like  this." 

"I've  got  work  to  do,  my  child,"  he  reminded  her. 

"But,  dearest,  you're  so  rich,  you  can  pay  some  one  to 
do  your  work  for  you." 

He  shook  his  head  and  dropped  on  to  his  knees,  scooping 
up  water  and  splashing  it  over  his  face  and  hair  with  both 
hands. 

"That's  the  trouble,  Dina,  I'm  so  beastly  rich  that  I 
shall  have  to  work  all  my  life.  It's  expected  of  me.  I 
shall  be  one  of  the  busiest  men  in  London  when  I  get 
started — a  younger  edition  of  Raymond  Stornaway." 

Her  face  lengthened  with  disappointment. 

"But  I  shall  never  see  you,"  she  pouted. 

"Perhaps  you'll  see  too  much  of  me,  when  we're  mar- 
ried." 

She  caught  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  preliminarily  plucking 
away  a  strand  of  sea-weed  and  mischievously  tossing  it  at 
him. 

"I  couldn't  do  that,  sweetheart,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  be 
with  you  every  hour  of  the  day,  I  want  to  kiss  you  asleep 
at  night  and  kiss  you  awake  in  the  morning;  all  the  rest 
of  the  time  I  want  to  sit  with  my  arms  around  your  neck, 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  353 

looking  at  you  and  listening  to  you  and  thanking  God  for 
you." 

Deryk  withdrew  his  hand  and  began  to  splash  his  way 
further  out  to  sea. 

"This  is  too  shallow  for  me,"  he  called  back.  "You  have 
to  wade  a  mile  before  the  water  comes  up  to  your  waist." 

Idina  started  to  follow  him  and  then  abruptly  stopped. 
A  hardening  in  his  voice,  only  perceptible  when  she  stopped 
to  reflect  upon  it,  warned  her  that  she  had  struck  a  false 
note.  She  splashed  industriously  in  the  surf  for  a  few 
moments,  with  furtive,  sideways  glances  at  his  bobbing 
head ;  then  she  began  to  wade  inshore,  calling  over  her 
shoulder  that  she  was  beginning  to  grow  cold.  She  had 
returned  to  her  cottage,  dressed  and  finished  brushing  her 
hair  before  Der}'k  appeared,  languid,  damp-haired  and 
ravenous,  to  demand  tobacco,  food  and  drink.  She  waited 
upon  him  silently  until  he  rose  with  a  sigh  and  walked  out 
into  the  garden;  then  she  slipped  her  arm  through  his  and 
strolled  into  the  sunshine  and  towards  the  bed  of  parched 
turf  where  he  had  lain  overnight. 

"When  d'you  get  your  morning  papers?"  he  asked,  as 
he  filled  a  pipe. 

"Not  till  to-night,  I'm  afraid,"  Idina  answered,  as  she 
began  to  pick  off  the  battered,  dead  rose-blossoms. 
"There's  no  proper  delivery,  so  I  have  them  posted  down. 
Is  there  anything  you  want  to  see?  I  find  them  so  dull 
that  I  never  mind,  if  they  don't  come." 

Deryk  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of  surprise. 

"But  what  do  you  do  all  the  morning?"  he  asked.  "You 
can't  pick  off  dead  blossoms  all  day." 

She  laughed  and  brushed  a  clinging  petal  from  her  hands. 

"I  can  and  do,  but  I  won't  to-day.  While  you're  here, 
I  only  want  to  be  with  you ;  and,  when  you're  away,  I  like 
to  wander  in  and  out  among  the  rose-trees,  thinking  how 
wonderfully  peaceful  it  all  is  after  what  I've  gone  through ; 
thinking,  too,  how  divinely  happy  I  am."  She  caught  hold 
of  his  wrists  and  looked  beguilingly  into  his  eyes.  "Say 
you  like  being  in  love  with  me,  darling!" 


354  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Deryk  removed  his  pipe  and  industriously  repacked  the 
tobacco. 

"I  should  have  thought  that  went  without  saying,"  he 
laughed.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  not  very  demonstrative,  but  I 
haven't  got  it  in  me,  I'm  not  built  that  way,  it  all  seems 
such  rot  to  me.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  much  good  at  making 
love,  Dina." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  teach  you  ?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head  wistfully. 

"Perhaps  I'm  too  old  to  learn.  Have  you  got  the  time  on 
you,  dear?  Because  I've  got  to  get  up  to  town  by  lunch- 
time." 

Idina  looked  crushed  with  disappointment. 

"But  you're  not  going  to-day,  darling?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  must,"  he  answered  gravely. 

"But  why?" 

Deryk  hesitated. 

"I've  got  to  see  my — architect,"  he  said  at  length. 


Idina  controlled  her  disappointment  for  a  time,  but,  when 
eleven  o'clock  struck  and  the  car  backed  cautiously  down 
the  street  to  her  gate,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Derj'k, — one  moment  before  you  go, — just  one!"  she 
begged,  as  he  scrambled  to  his  feet  without  any  want  of 
alacrity  and  set  out  in  search  of  his  hat.  "There's  one 
thing  I  want  to  say  to  you " 

He  looked  at  her  with  surprise,  as  she  hesitated. 

"Well?" 

"It's  just  this,"  she  explained  with  forced  detachment, 
playing  with  a  button  of  his  coat.  "If  you  ever  feel  you've 
made — a  mistake,  I  want  you  to  tell  me.  I  shan't  reproach 
you,  darling;  I'll  say  good-bye  and — and — forget  all  about 
you.  If  you  ever  thought  you'd  got  me  tied  to  you  always 
and  always.  ...  I  don't  want  you  to  marry  me  unless 
you  feel  that  you  simply  can't  live  without  me.  Do  you  feel 
that,  Deryk?" 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  355 

"Should  I  have  come  down  here,  if  I  hadn't?"  he  asked 
indulgently,  as  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  good- 
bye. 

She  smiled  in  sudden  ecstasy,  but  the  joy  died  out  of 
her  eyes  as  quickly  as  it  had  been  born. 

"You're  going  away  again  so  soon !  I  should  like  you 
simply  not  to  be  able  to  go  away." 

"I'm  afraid  the  world  would  come  to  a  standstill  on 
that  principle,"  he  laughed. 

"Bother  the  old  world!"  she  cried.  "Who  cares?  But, 
Deryk,  if  you  ever  do  feel " 

He  smothered  her  halting  sentence  with  another  kiss. 

"You're  talking  a  great  deal  of  rot,  young  woman! 
R.  O.  T.,  rot.  Don't  do  it  again,  but  just  tell  me  when  I 
shall  see  you  in  town," 

"Whenever  you  want  me,  dearest." 

He  pulled  a  note-book  out  of  his  pocket  and  turned  the 
pages. 

"Well,  you  and  the  Manistys  are  lunching  with  me  the 
first  Tuesday  in  August.  I  shall  see  you  then.  Do  you 
remember  where  you  put  my  coat  ?" 

Idina's  eyes  followed  him  slowly  and  hopelessly,  as  he 
bustled  into  the  cottage. 

"It's  on  the  window-seat,"  §he  called  out.  "I  shall  see 
you  then." 

Deryk  motored  comfortably  back  to  London  with  an 
ungrudging  sense  that  his  time  had  been  well  spent.  His 
private  business,  the  work  on  his  new  house  were  propor- 
tionately neglected,  but  a  man  in  love  was  not  a  free  agent. 
He  had  given  poor  Idina  unbounded  pleasure  by  his  visit, 
the  memory  of  their  ill-starred  luncheon-party  was  ef- 
faced ;  now  he  had  several  clear  days  for  work  without  fear 
of  interruption  or  need  to  play  a  part.  They  were  going  to 
be  very  hard  days,  for  he  did  not  want  to  spend  August 
in  London  and,  unless  he  got  the  alterations  well  advanced 
before  going  away,  he  knew  that  nothing  would  be  done 
until  his  return.  The  house  must  be  finished ;  the  men  were 
incredibly,  intolerably  slow;  he  wanted  to  see  it  as  he  had 


356  MIDAS  AND  SON 

once  dreamed  of  it  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when 
he  pushed  away  the  plans,  tilted  back  his  chair  and  sud- 
denly caught  a  glimpse  of  perfect  proportions  and  ideal 
colours  .  .  .  Moving  in  would  be  rare  fun ;  playing  with 
his  new  toy.     And  afterwards?  .  .  . 

He  wondered  what  Idina  would  do,  what  she  really  did 
with  herself  all  day  at  Pensington.  It  must  be  wonderful 
to  be  able  to  live  that  Arcadian  life,  to  sleep  and  bathe  and 
wander  about  a  garden  and  eat  primitive  food;  he  had 
enjoyed  every  moment  of  it  as  a  holiday,  but  then  he  had 
come  there  tired  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones,  and  it  had 
been  heavenly  weather.  .  .  . 

"I  couldn't  have  stood  a  second  night,  though,"  he  told 
himself.  "The  fact  is,  I'm  a  devilish  poor  lover,  I'm  not 
cut  out  for  it ;  the  conventional  technique  simply  makes 
me  feel  a  fool.  Dina  thinks  she  wants  petting  and  calling 
by  absurd  names  now,  she's  awfully  hurt  if  I  don't  play 
up  at  any  time,  but  when  once  we're  married " 

Her  parting  prayer  returned  to  his  memor}^  If  he  had 
made  a  mistake,  he  was  to  get  out  of  it  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  she  would  not  reproach  him,  she  would  not  spoil  his 
life.  ...  It  was  all  rather — what  word  could  he  use? — 
literary;  if  he  were  trying  to  describe  the  vicissitudes  of 
love  in  book  or  play,  there  would  of  necessity  be  theii 
little  scene  of  that  morning — her  moment's  uncertainty  of 
him,  the  resolution  to  restore  him  his  freedom  at  all  costs, 
the  promise  to  forget  him,  the  smile  through  her  tears.  .  .  . 
It  was  charming,  but  rather  absurd.  It  would  hurt  her 
like  sin,  she  would  not  be  able  to  forget  him;  if  he  ever 
accepted  her  invitation  and  said  he  had  ceased  to  love  her, 
if  he  betrayed  it  without  saying  a  word  to  her,  he  would 
be  committing  murder  as  surely  as  if  he  deliberately 
strangled  her.  She  was  that  sort ;  and  she  had  been  through 
so  much  unhappiness  and  was  so  happy  now  that  the  result 
was  never  in  doubt.  If  he  did  get  tired  of  her  in  the  next 
four  months,  if  he  became  convinced  that  they  had  made 
a  hideous  mistake  and  were  preparing  a  married  life  that 
would   be   a   nightmare,    still   he   would   be   bound   to   go 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  357 

through  with  it — unless  he  bribed  a  doctor  to  diagnose  gal- 
loping consumption  (and  he  was  not  good  enough  actor  for 
the  parting  scene),  or  had  a  shooting  accident  (which  was 
so  likely  to  overtake  a  man  who  never  shot!)  or  tumbled 
under  a  train  on  the  Underground  (but,  to  begin  with,  that 
was  an  unpleasant  end  and  required  nerve ;  in  the  second 
place  it  would  not  deceive  a  child ;  the  unexplained  death 
of  a  man  engaged  to  be  married  was  almost  invariably 
suicide,  almost  invariably  occasioned  by  the  engagement. 
He  would  have  to  be  more  artistic,  he  would  have  to  take 
rather  more  trouble  than  that.  .  .  . 

Deryk  started  and  sat  upright  in  his  corner.  It  was  a 
fool's  game  to  admit  that  such  a  thing  as  suicide  existed, 
to  talk  about  it,  to  think  about  it —  You  simply  got  mor- 
bid and,  one  day,  you  did  yourself  in ;  and  your  friends  gave 
evidence  and  told  the  coroner  that  you  had  been  talking 
about  suicide  a  great  deal  and  seemed  "depressed,"  and  the 
jury  returned  the  usual  "while-of-unsound-mind"  verdict 
to  spare  the  feelings  of  your  relations  (thank  Heaven!  he 
hadn't  any)  and  get  you  Christian  burial.  As  a  matter  of 
interest,  he  wondered  whether  a  man  of  sound  mind  could 
deliberately  wrench  soul  from  body  and  take  his  own  life, 
whether  he  could  overcome  that  amazing  tenacity  of  ex- 
istence, whether  you  really  had  to  be  off  your  head  before 
you  could  lose  sight  of  everything  else  and  concentrate  on 
the  one  reflection  that  life  was  not  worth  living  and  that 
the  only  way  of  ending  your  misery  was  to  end  your 
life.  .  .  . 

"This,  again,  is  morbid,"  he  told  himself. 

She  only  wanted  him  to  marry  her  when  he  felt  that 
he  could  not  live  without  her.  .  .  .  That  was  really  ab- 
surd. If  she  had  the  shooting  accident  or  got  drowned 
bathing,  he  would  not  shut  himself  up  and  die;  it  would 
be  a  terrible  shock,  a  dreadful  loss,  but  he  would  continue 
to  live.  She  seemed  ten  years  younger  than  he  in  her  ro- 
mantic conceptions.  In  marriage,  the  first  thing  to  decide 
was  whether  you  could  share  your  life  with  anyone,  then 
who  was  best  suited  for  an  amazingly  intimate,  incredibly 


358  MIDAS  AND  SON 

permanent  joint  existence.  If  he  could  bear  to  live  with 
anyone  more  than  a  few  weeks,  he  could  bear  to  live  with 
Idina ;  he  would  sooner  have  her  with  him  in  the  car  at 
that  moment — at  all  times,  indeed,  when  he  was  not  work- 
ing; of  course,  she  did  rather  look  on  life  as  a  musical 
comedy  with  moon-light  effects,  a  recitative  duet  breaking 
into  a  waltz-song,  gyrations  up  and  down  stairs  and  a  sug- 
ary over-emphasis  of  sentiment  and  stage  passion.  Poor 
Dina !  He  put  his  feet  up  on  the  seat  opposite  and  began 
to  write  a  pencil  note  on  a  sheet  torn  from  his  pocket-book. 
"Great  fun,  dear,  wasn't  it?  I  hope  you  enjoyed  it  as 
much  as  I  did.  Look  here,  it's  a  long  time  before  our 
lunch-party;  why  don't  you  suggest  a  night  for  coming  up 
and  dining?  I'm  writing  in  the  car;  hence  this  filthy 
scrawl." 

"She'll  like  that,"  he  prophesied,  as  the  car  slowed  down 
on  entering  the  south-west  suburbs. 

He  reached  his  rooms  to  find  the  shorthand-writer  in- 
dustriously ripping  open  envelopes  and  filling  in  names  and 
addresses  on  a  pad  of  telegraph  forms. 

"Oh,  Lord  1  I  hoped  somehow  to  find  the  rot  would 
stop,  if  I  went  away,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  suppose  there's 
nothing  of  any  interest  ?" 

"They're  all — very  much  the  same.  Sir  Deryk,"  the  girl 
answered.  "This  telegram  has  just  come  in  from  Mrs. 
Dawson." 

He  took  it  and  read,  "Trust  you  arrived  safely." 

"Oh,  tell  her  I  have,  will  you?"  he  said,  tossing  the  tele- 
gram on  to  the  table.  The  girl  picked  it  up,  as  though  she 
expected  him  to  be  a  little  less  off-hand  in  his  reply.  "As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  sent  her  a  line  already,"  he  ex- 
plained almost  apologetically,  wondering  the  next  moment 
why  he  troubled  to  excuse  himself  to  an  unknown,  sub- 
dued-looking girl  who  existed  at  that  moment  to  type  his 
letters  and  send  off  his  telegrams  at  two  guineas  a  week — 
thereafter  to  fade  out  of  his  life. 

"A  great  many  people  have  called  or  rung  you  up,"  she 
told  him.     "I  said  I  did  not  know  where  you  were." 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  359 

"Go  on  saying  that,"  Deryk  begged  her.  "If  you  want 
me  for  anything  urgent,  I  shall  be  at  the  new  house,  but  I 
don't  want  people  to  run  me  to  earth  there.  Make  an  ex- 
ception for  Jonas,  my  architect,  if  he  turns  up,  but  no  one 
else." 

He  spent  a  happy  half  day,  planning  and  ordering  in  the 
new  house,  and  only  left  at  nine  o'clock  in  time  to  snatch 
a  hurried  meal  at  the  Eclectic  Club.  He  had  meant  to  dine 
alone,  but  George  Oakleigh,  also  a  late-comer,  sent  a  waiter 
to  his  table  with  the  suggestion  that  they  should  join 
forces,  Deryk  felt  that  he  owed  him  too  much  to  yield  to 
his  first  impulse  of  refusal. 

"Just  good  wishes,"  said  Oakleigh,  putting  down  his 
paper  and  extending  a  hand  of  welcome.  "You  must  be 
sick  to  death  of  the  subject,  so  I  won't  ask  a  single  ques- 
tion. The  sole  amiral  is  rather  good,  but  I  can't  recom- 
mend the  lamb." 

"Thanks — for  the  good  wishes  and  the  advice,"  Deryk 
laughed.  "If  you  haven't  ordered  anything  to  drink,  will 
you  help  me  with  a  bottle  of  the  '04  Bollinger?  I  don't 
believe  there's  a  great  lot  left!" 

As  ever  he  felt  at  his  ease  with  Oakleigh.  The  air  of 
kindly  disillusion,  the  shy  sympathy,  the  real,  subterran- 
ean friendship  inspired  confidence ;  they  had  established 
an  alliance  of  soul  at  their  first  encounter,  when  with  feel- 
ings of  equal  boredom  they  had  assisted  at  the  Ripley  Court 
meet  of  Lord  Pebbleridge's  hounds. 

"How  much  longer  are  you  staying  on  in  town?'*  Deryk 
asked. 

"I'm  going  to  Chepstow  at  the  end  of  the  month,"  Oak- 
leigh answered.  "By  the  way,  you  know  when  we  met  at 
the  Carlton  last  week?  Marriage  must  have  been  in  the 
air.  Loring  and  his  sister  and  a  cousin  of  mine  were 
having  supper  with  me  at  one  end  of  the  room,  you  and 
Mrs.  Dawson  were  at  the  other;  two  days  later  your  en- 
gagement was  announced,  Loring's  was  published  the  fol- 
lowing morning.     Shall   I   see  you   at  Chepstow  by  any 


36o  MIDAS  AND  SON 

chance?  He's  giving  a  sort  of  long  week-end  party  and 
a  dance  in  honour  of  the  occasion." 

Deryk  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know  him  at  all  well.  Wasn't  he  engaged  be- 
fore? To  Sonia  Dainton,  surely?  Why  did  they  break  it 
off?" 

"They  weren't  very  well  suited,"  Oakleigh  answered 
vaguely.  "There  was  no  discredit  to  Loring.  He  was 
rather  badly  knocked  out  over  it  and  went  away  from 
England  for  some  years." 

Deryk  would  have  liked  to  pursue  the  subject,  but  his 
companion's  manner  had  grown  suddenly  impenetrable. 

"He's  got  pots  of  money,  hasn't  he?"  he  asked.  "What 
has  he  been  doing  with  himself  ever  since  he  came  down 
from  Oxford?" 

Oakleigh  seemed  puzzled  by  the  question. 

"I  don't  quite  understand.  He's  usually  out  of  England 
in  the  winter,  but  he  used  to  attend  the  House  of  Lords 
pretty  regularly  in  the  old  days ;  and  then  he  had  five  dif- 
ferent places  to  keep  up  in  different  parts  of  the  country. 
He  collected  a  bit  and  entertained  a  bit;  I  think,  between 
ourselves,  he  was  getting  rather  bored  with  it." 

Deryk  nodded,  but  the  information  did  not  help  him. 
Everything  that  Loring  had  was  no  doubt  stable  and  or- 
derly; large  demands  and  a  full  treasury  from  which  to 
meet  them;  jointures  automatically  operative  for  all  mem- 
bers of  his  family;  a  population  of  many  thousands  over 
his  wide-scattered  acres  dependent  on  him  in  greater  or 
less  degree.  There  was  all  the  difference  between  a  settled 
kingdom  and  a  pioneer's  camp.  Loring  was  never  faced 
with  odd  half-millions  in  cash.  .  .  . 

"How's  your  uncle?"  Deryk  enquired  suddenly. 

"Going  strong,  thanks,  and  wants  you  and  your  lady  to 
dine  with  him.  He's  at  the  House  to-night,  but  he'll  come 
over  to  Ireland  with  me  as  soon  as  the  House  rises,  unless 
civil  war  really  breaks  out.  I'm  not  very  much  alarmed 
myself.    Are  you  ?" 

"No,  but  I  think  there  may  be  trouble  on  the  continent; 


i 
J 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  361 

the  Austrians  are  looking  nasty.  I  suppose  there's  no  hope 
of  a  general  flare-up,  everybody  fighting  everybody  else? 
That  would  be  rather  fun." 

Oakleigh  looked  at  him  with  raised  eyebrows. 

"You've  a  curious  idea  of  fun,"  he  commented. 

"I  was  thinking  I'd  try  to  squeeze  in  somewhere.  I 
don't  know  anything  about  war,  but  I  suppose  I  could  vol- 
unteer.    It  would  be  a  new  sensation." 

"It  would  be  all  that.  You're  a  blood-thirsty  young  ruf- 
fian. Lancing.  You  settle  down  to  domesticity ;  that'll 
give  you  a  new  sensation  and  will  probably  be  the  making 
of  you." 

At  the  end  of  dinner  Deryk  hurried  Oakleigh  away  from 
his  coffee  and  led  him  round  to  see  the  house  in  Pall  Mall. 
A  policeman  was  guarding  the  boarded  doorway,  but,  after 
a  short  scrutiny,  he  let  them  in,  and  Deryk  spent  a  glorious 
hour  describing,  displaying  and  arguing. 

"But  the  place  is  pretty  well  finished !"  Oakleigh  ex- 
claimed in  surprise.  "You've  only  had  it  a  month  or  two; 
and  you've  got  all  your  carpets  and  curtains  and  furniture 
and  pictures.  As  soon  as  you've  got  your  electric  fittings, 
the  place  will  be  complete." 

"Then  I'm  having  my  winter  garden  built  on  the  roof. 
Oh,  I  can  tell  you  I've  had  to  put  in  some  pretty  hard 
work." 

"But  you're  not  bei  ig  married  for  some  months,  are 
you?    Why  all  the  hurry?" 

Deryk  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"I  had  to  get  the  thing  finished,"  he  said. 

"I  should  have  thought  it  would  have  been  more  fun 
to  tackle  it  slowly,  room  by  room,  pick  up  your  furniture 
bit  by  bit.  Now  you'll  have  nothing  more  to  do,  and  what 
then?" 

"That  applies  to  everything,"  Deryk  answered.  He  could 
not  imagine  why  he  had  brought  Oakleigh  against  his  will 
to  see  something  which  he  was  obviously  incapable  of  ap- 
preciating. 

Sensitive  to  tone,  Oakleigh  changed  the  subject. 


362  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"What  does  Mrs.  Dawson  think  of  it  ?"  he  asked,  as  they 
came  down  the  stairs  into  the  hall. 

"She's  coming  up  to  see  it  in  a  few  days'  time." 

"She  hasn't  seen  it  yet?    You're  a  bold  man." 

"Oh,  she'll  approve."  He  laughed  conventionally.  "She 
approves  of  everything  I  do." 

"Lucky  man,"  Oakleigh  substituted. 

Deryk  took  the  stereotyped  words  seriously. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  asked  after  a  pause.  "If  you 
lived  with  someone  who  really  agreed  with  ever^'thing  you 
said  or  did " 

"You  silly  idiot!  You're  a  lucky  man  to  have  anyone 
as  fond  of  you  as  she  is,"  Oakleigh  explained,  gripping 
Deryk's  arm  with  an  unexpected  betrayal  of  affection. 
"You're  a  very  lucky  man  to  get  her  at  all.  Don't  forget 
I've  met  her,  so  I  know  what  she's  like.  But  I've  broken 
my  promise;  you  must  be  sick  of  hearing  her  praises  sung." 

"I — I  like  it  from  you,  old  man,"  said  Deryk  shyly. 

Idina  received  his  pencilled  note  next  morning  and  tele- 
graphed that  she  was  coming  to  town  that  day.  As  she 
walked  to  the  post  office  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  might 
be  forcing  his  hand,  that  he  might  be  engaged,  that  he 
might  think  her  importunate.  "To  do  some  shopping. 
Staying  at  Hans  Crescent,"  she  added  to  the  message. 

Deryk  was  still  in  his  rooms  when  the  shorthand  writer 
opened  the  telegram  and  read  it  aloud  to  him;  he  was  at 
pains  not  to  betray  emotion. 

"Will  you  please  ring  up  Mr.  George  Oakleigh — some- 
where in  Prince's  Gardens — and  say  I'm  very  sorry  I  can't 
dine  with  him,  as  Mrs.  Dawson  is  coming  up  specially  to 
see  me?  Then  will  you  book  me  a  table  at  Claridge's  for 
half  past  eight  and  send  a  message  to  the  Hans  Crescent 
asking  Mrs.  Dawson  to  meet  me  there  at  that  time?" 

He  was  signing  his  last  letter  and  preparing  to  go  out, 
when  the  girl  put  down  the  receiver  of  the  telephone  and 
said  that  Mr.  Oakleigh  had  already  invited  several  people ; 
would  not  Sir  Deryk  bring  Mrs.  Dawson  with  him,  as  Mr. 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  363 

Bertrand  Oakleigh  and  the  others  were  very  anxious  to 
meet  her? 

"Tell  him  it's  very  kind,  and  I  shall  be  delighted  to  do 
so,"  he  said.  "And  tell  the  Hans  Crescent  people  that  I'll 
call  for  Mrs.  Dawson  at  eight-fifteen.  You  might  order  the 
car  to  be  here  at  eight.  That's  an  improvement  on  the 
other  scheme." 

The  girl  returned  to  the  telephone  and  delivered  the 
message.  She  had  seen  Idina  once,  Deryk  many  times; 
they  filled  her  with  an  interest  which  she  tried  in  vain  to 
dissemble.  Often  she  tried  to  put  herself  in  Mrs.  Dawson's 
place  and  imagine  the  sensation  of  loving  and  being  loved 
by  her  curious,  old-young,  nervous,  happy,  impatient  em- 
ployer. She  was  beginning  to  find  him  a  little  brusque  and 
inconsiderate — spoilt  by  having  had  all  that  money  all  his 
life.  The  plan  to  dine  with  the  Oakleighs  might  be  an 
improvement,  but  it  would  certainly — in  Mrs.  Dawson's 
eyes — not  be  the  same  as  the  projected  dinner  at  Claridge's, 
for  which  she  was  "specially"  coming  to  London.  .  .  . 


Deryk  was  well  justified  in  boasting  that  Idina  approved 
of  everything  that  he  did.  The  corners  of  her  mouth  went 
down  for  an  instant  when  he  hurried  rather  late  into  the 
hall  of  her  hotel  and  explained  in  the  intervals  of  dragging 
her  into  the  car  and  packing  her  into  a  corner,  as  though 
he  were  abducting  her,  that  his  plans  were  changed  and 
that  she  was  bound  for  a  dinner-party  where  she  felt  sure 
that  she  would  not  know  a  tithe  of  the  guests. 

"You've  got  to  go  through  it  some  time,"  he  pointed  out, 
"and,  as  you  were  in  town,  I  thought  we'd  kill  two  birds 
with  one  stone.  The  Oakleighs  have  been  very  decent  to 
me. 

"Shall  we  be  very  late?"  she  asked  timidly, 

"You  can  leave  the  moment  that  you  begin  to  feel 
bored." 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  meaning  that.    But,  if  we  get  away  early, — < 


364  MIDAS  AND  SON 

it's  such  a  lovely  night — couldn't  we  have  the  car  open  and 
go  for  a  drive  before  bed-time  ?" 

Deryk  looked  into  her  eager  face  and  become  immediately 
tolerant. 

"Yes,  we  can  do  that,  if  It  would  amuse  you,"  he  said 
paternally. 

George  Oakleigh  had  improvised  a  large  party  at  short 
notice.  The  Lorings  had  postponed  their  departure  to  the 
country  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  Deryk  found  Lord 
Summertown  and  his  sister,  Arden,  the  novelist,  and  half 
a  dozen  others  that  he  knew,  as  well  as  a  dozen  more  who 
seemed  to  know  him.  Their  hosts,  too,  appeared  to  be 
killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  for  Loring  and  Miss 
Hunter-Oakleigh  were  receiving  the  last  of  many  congratu- 
lations, as  Idina  entered  the  massive,  mid- Victorian  draw- 
ing-room. 

"Your  husband,  m'am,  will  soon  have  the  privilege  of  so 
much  of  your  company,"  said  old  Bertrand  Oakleigh  with 
the  courtesy  which  shone  in  his  manner  like  an  infrequent 
jewel  in  quartz.  "You  must  allow  us  to  make  him  share 
the  privilege  for  one  night.  I  am  afraid  that  as  yet  you  are 
the  greatest  stranger,  so  you  will  have  to  let  me  take  you 
dov/n.  George  will  arrange  about  the  others,  as  soon  as 
we've  led  the  way." 

To  Idina  the  long  table  with  its  rows  of  unfamiliar  faces 
was  bewildering  after  her  retirement  of  the  last  ten  months. 
She  was  conscious  of  sitting  tongue-tied  for  the  first  two 
courses  and  even  afterwards  of  venturing  on  nothing  more 
original  than  a  discreetly-placed  "yes"  or  "no."  Her  host 
soon  gave  up  conversation  and  tried  to  set  her  at  ease  by 
a  monologue  on  the  obvious  impossibility  of  a  European 
war,  but  she  felt  that,  however  uncomplainingly,  he  was 
labouring;  from  time  to  time  she  looked  up  at  Deryk, 
hoping  that  he  would  not  see  how  poor  a  figure  she  was 
cutting.  It  did  not  add  to  her  comfort  when  she  saw  that 
he  was  engaged  in  a  triangular  sparring-match  with  Arden 
and  Lady  Amy  Loring  and  that  they  at  least  were  thor- 
oughly at  home.    These  people  knew  more,  they  knew  each 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  365 

other  better,  they  had  more  small  change  to  give  away; 
she  was  abashed  to  think  how  hard  she  must  work  before 
she  could  do  credit  to  Deryk. 

On  her  other  side  Lord  Loring  came  to  Bertrand  Oak- 
leigh's  relief  and  put  a  number  of  questions  about  their  fu- 
ture plans.  (As  their  first  meeting  had  been  almost  at  her 
husband's  death-bed,  she  could  not  help  wondering  how 
much  he  knew  or  suspected  and  whether  he  thought  a  fresh 
engagement  eight  months  later  indecent.)  They  were  in 
the  same  boat ;  when  was  she  going  to  be  married  ?  Where 
did  they  think  of  living?  (He  had  not  seen  the  new 
house.)  Was  it  true  that  Deryk  was  going  into  Parliament, 
as  some  of  the  papers  had  suggested?  Finally  and  with 
conventionality  born  of  despair,  he  hoped  that  she  would 
find  a  moment  to  talk  to  Miss  Hunter-Oakleigh  upstairs, 
as  he  particularly  wanted  them  to  be  great  friends.  ,  .  . 
The  sentence  was  cut  short  by  a  sudden  silence,  followed 
by  a  rustle  of  skirts.  He  jumped  up  to  open  the  door,  and, 
as  she  hesitated  in  the  doorway,  trying  to  catch  Deryk's  eye 
for  the  last  time  before  leaving  him,  she  saw  Loring's  grey 
eyes  soften  and  his  fingers  close  for  a  moment  over  Violet 
Hunter-Oakleigh's  wrist. 

"Well,  I  congratulate  both  you  boys,"  said  Bertrand  Oak- 
leigh  gruffly,  as  he  changed  to  the  armchair  at  the  far  end 
of  the  table.     "Your  turn  now,  George." 

"To  congratulate  them?     I've  done  it  already." 

"To  get  married,"  grunted  his  uncle. 

"You're  senior  to  me,  Bertrand,"  George  answered,  as  he 
began  to  circulate  the  port  wine.  "Any  news  at  the  House 
about  the  Austrian  business?" 

"No.  It'll  fizzle  out,  but  that's  no  news.  The  terms  are 
preposterous." 

There  was  a  languid,  wide-ranging  political  discussion 
until  George  Oakleigh  warned  his  uncle  that  it  was  time 
to  move  upstairs. 

"Don't  keep  Mrs.  Dawson  here  too  late,"  he  whispered  to 
Deryk.  "I  think  she's  tired.  She  was  very  quiet  at  din- 
ner. 


Z6G  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"She  always  is  rather  quiet,"  Deryk  answered,  as  he  ex- 
tinguished the  end  of  his  cigar  in  a  finger-bowl.  "Of 
course,  she  has  been  very  ill,  but  she  was  looking  all  right, 
wasn't  she?" 

"I  couldn't  see  properly;  I'm  too  short-sighted.  I  really 
only  meant  that  it  has  taken  you  a  bit  of  a  fight  to  get  her; 
so  take  care  of  her  now  that  you've  got  her." 

Deryk  was  touched  by  the  unobtrusive  kindliness  of  the 
tone.  He  could  not  help  feeling  that  George  would  make 
Idina  a  far  more  considerate  husband  than  he  could  ever 
hope  to  be.  It  was  a  pity  in  some  ways  that  they  could  not 
change  places !  Though  he  would  hate  to  see  anyone  even 
admiring  her  from  a  distance !  It  was  curious  that,  while 
he  was  sometimes  not  certain  whether  he  wanted  to  marry 
her  himself,  he  was  certain  that  he  did  not  want  anyone 
else  to.  She  had  brought  that  very  charge  against  him 
when  he  was  being  cut  out  by  Sidney  Dawson,  Appar- 
ently he  could  not  live  without  her — which  was  all  she 
asked — it  remained  to  be  seen  whether  he  could  live  with 
her.  .  .  .    That  was  going  to  be  their  life. 

In  the  drawing-room  he  found  himself  cornered  by  Lor- 
ing  with  an  apologetic,  eleventh-hour  invitation  for  the 
house-party  at  Chepstow,  to  which  George  Oakleigh  had 
alluded  the  previous  evening,  Idina  had  already  been  ap- 
proached by  Violet  Hunter-Oakleigh  and  had  accepted 
provisionally. 

"My  dear,  you're  lunching  with  me  on  the  Tuesday  after 
Bank  Holiday,"  he  reminded  her. 

"But  Lord  Loring  says  we  can  get  back  in  time  for  that," 
Idina  urged. 

"Well,  you  go,  by  all  means.  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  able 
to  get  away  from  London.  I'm  trying  to  clear  up  a  lot  of 
odds  and  ends,"  he  explained,  "and,  if  I  don't  stay  here  till 
I've  finished,  I  shall  drag  on  in  town  all  August.  There's 
no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  go." 

Idina  flushed  almost  imperceptibly  and  turned  to  Loring 
with  an  air  of  great  contrivance. 

"May  I  send  you  a  line?"  she  asked.     "I  really  haven't 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  367 

discussed  with  Deryk  what  we  are  going  to  do;  I  didn't 
see  him  till  he  picked  me  up  on  his  way  here." 

Loring  bowed  in  acquiescence,  and  they  separated  to  va- 
cant chairs. 

It  was  still  early  when  they  left,  and  Deryk  adhered  to 
his  promise  of  a  drive.  The  invitation  to  Loring  Castle  left 
a  rankling  sense  that  everybody  concerned  had  behaved 
rather  unreasonably.  In  the  first  place,  Loring  no  doubt 
meant  well,  but  it  was  absurd  to  ask  to  his  party  a  man  with 
whom  his  acquaintance  was  of  the  slightest  and  a  woman 
whom  he  had  once  found  ill  in  an  Italian  hotel.  Then  it  was 
not  quite  fair  of  Idina  to  give  any  kind  of  acceptance  with- 
out consulting  him;  now  that  they  were  almost  man  and 
wife,  now  that  the  one  was  bound  by  the  other's  engage- 
ments, it  was  essential  to  discuss  an  invitation  before  ac- 
cepting it;  that  was  the  only  possible  basis  of  a  common 
life,  and  a  common  life — marriage — must  be  infernally 
restricted,  involving  an  appalling  surrender  of  one's  per- 
sonal freedom,  at  the  best  of  times.  Fortunately  Idina  had 
not  many  friends  of  her  own,  but  it  was  preposterous  to 
suppose  that  any  husband  would  get  on  with  all  his  wife's 
friends,  or  any  wife  with  all  her  husband's.  .  .  . 

But,  conceding  that  Loring  and  she  had  innocently  con- 
trived to  put  him  into  an  awkward  corner,  he  had  not  ex- 
tricated himself  from  it  very  adroitly  or  gracefully.  Lor- 
ing probably  guessed  that  he  was  making  excuses ;  Idina 
was  partly  perplexed  and  wholly  disappointed.  (She  did 
love  meeting  people.) 

"I  say,  about  this  party  at  Chepstow,"  he  began,  as  the 
car  turned  into  Kensington  Gardens. 

Idina  laid  her  hand  penitently  upon  his  sleeve. 

"Oh,  Deryk,  I'm  so  sorry.  I  didn't  actually  say  I  would 
go,  but  they  seemed  so  anxious,  and  I  didn't  know  you 
were  going  to  be  busy " 

"My  dear,  there's  no  need  to  apologise,"  he  interrupted 
in  some  embarrassment.  "As  I  understand  it,  the  thing's 
left  open  for  the  present.  If  you're  really  keen  on  our 
going " 


368  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"I'm  not,  Deryk,  I'm  really,  really  not.     I  just  thought 

that  if  you  were  doing  nothing I  think  Miss  Hunter- 

Oakleigh  is  so  sweet,  and  of  course  Lord  Loring  was  won- 
derfully kind  to  me  when  I  was  so  ill.  But  I  don't  want 
to  go  a  bit — honestly." 

Deryk  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sat  back  with  his  hat 
pulled  low  over  his  forehead.  He  had  not  wanted  to  go 
to  Chepstow  in  the  first  place,  but  he  would  sooner  be 
there  now  than  win  his  present  victory  over  Idina.  It 
was  going  to  be  very  hard  if  she  always  capitulated  when 
he  began  to  discuss  elementary  difficulties  in  a  proposition. 

"I  daresay  I  can  manage  it,"  he  suggested  with  lukewarm 
contrition.     "If  you'd  like  to  go " 

"I  shouldn't,  Deryk.  I'd  much  sooner  stay  in  London  or 
go  back  to  Pensington.  But  I  want  you  to  tell  me  who 
everybody  was  and  what  you  talked  about  when  we'd  left 
the  room,"  she  went  on  hurriedly.  "Mr.  Oakleigh  is  a 
wonderfully  interesting  old  man:  he  was  talking  about  Sir 
Edward  Grey's  foreign  policy.  I  felt  frightfully  ignorant, 
but  it  was  very  interesting  all  the  same.  I  wish  I  wasn't 
so  ignorant,  dear;  I  wish  you'd  take  charge  of  me  and  edu- 
cate me." 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  in  supplication  to  him,  half 
hoping  for  an  indignant  contradiction. 

"Don't  be  too  humble,  Dina,"  was  all  he  would  say.  "In 
this  world  you'll  find  that  we're  taken  surprisingly  much 
at  our  own  valuation." 

"You  don't  take  me  at  my  valuation,  I  hope  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

There  was  a  flash  of  light,  as  her  cloak  fell  back  and 
her  bare  arms  met  round  his  neck. 

"Sweetheart !  I'm  not  worthy  of  you  and  I  never  shall 
be,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  it." 

"If  I  felt  it,  I  shouldn't  tell  you,"  he  answered,  trying  to 
laugh  her  out  of  her  sudden  passionate  intensity. 

They  drove  for  an  hour  through  Hyde  Park,  Regent's 
Park  and  Hampstead  up  to  Hendon  and  across  to  Harrow. 
It  was  midnight  before  Deryk  had  dropped  her  at  the  Hans 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  369 

Crescent  Hotel  and  returned  to  his  rooms,  but  he  felt  little 
disposed  to  sleep.  Changing  into  a  smoking  jacket,  he 
filled  a  pipe,  lit  it  and  settled  down  to  sign  the  formidable 
pile  of  letters  which  his  secretary  had  left  on  the  table  to 
await  him.  It  was  an  antidote  against  thinking.  He  had 
hardly  read  through  the  first  before  he  was  conscious  of 
the  acrid  smell  of  singeing  and,  on  pushing  back  his  chair, 
he  found  that  the  match  which  he  had  thrown  away  was 
blazing  in  the  middle  of  a  hole,  the  size  of  a  saucer,  burnt 
in  the  carpet.  The  floor  was  covered  with  papers,  and  the 
nearest  of  these  were  beginning  to  smoke.  He  hurriedly 
stamped  out  the  fire,  poured  water  on  the  charred  remains 
and  flung  open  the  windows  to  get  rid  of  the  fumes.  In 
doing  so,  his  pipe  went  out,  and,  when  he  came  to  re-light 
it,  his  hand  was  trembling,  and,  as  there  was  no  one  present 
to  read  his  thoughts,  he  could  admit  to  having  been  sur- 
prised and  rather  scared.  If,  instead  of  signing  letters,  he 
had  grown  drowsy  over  a  book.  .  .  .  First  the  carpet,  then 
the  scattered  papers,  then — as  the  fire  spread — the  curtains, 
table-cloth,  chair-covers,  his  own  clothes;  he  might  have 
been  roused  to  find  himself  a  pillar  of  flame  in  a  circle  of 
flame ;  then  a  wild  dash  through  more  fire  to  a  door  which 

he  might  or  might  not  reach,  might  or  might  not  open 

You  had  to  wrap  yourself  in  a  rug  on  these  occasions, 
surely,  and  roll  about  till  the  flames  were  smothered,  which 
must  be  exceedingly  painful ;  if,  of  course,  you  were  prop- 
erly alight,  you  would  probably  be  so  badly  injured  that  you 
would  die  of  the  shock.  .  .  . 

With  unreasoning  passion  he  picked  up  the  electric  read- 
ing lamp  and  threw  it  on  the  floor ;  the  telephone  was  about 
to  follow,  when  he  pulled  up  short  and  told  himself  that  he 
was  behaving  like  a  child.  Yet  it  was  really  exasperating 
that  with  everything  he  could  want,  nothing  to  worry  him, 
he  was  becoming  so  nervous  and  fanciful ;  morbid,  too ;  he 
was  always  thinking  how  men  actually  died  and  why  they 
died,  what  they  looked  like,  what  it  felt  like,  what  people 
would  say  after  his  death.  There  was  no  reason  for  it. 
His  father  had  died  a  natural  death,  there  was  no  morbid 


370  MIDAS  AND  SON 

strain  in  the  family;  someone  had  once  told  him — Hats  or 
Raymond  Stornaway  or  his  father  himself — that,  when  he 
first  broke  down  beyond  hope  of  recovery,  Sir  Aylmer  had 
contemplated  suicide.  That  might  be  true,  or  it  might  not; 
the  fact  remained  that  he  had  lived  on,  enduring  incredible 
pain  and  surmounting  indescribable  depression,  for  fifteen 
years.  This  utterly  unnecessary  preoccupation  with  death 
was  just  the  thing  to  provoke  tragedy.  .  .  . 

He  picked  up  the  fragments  of  the  reading  lamp  and 
returned  to  his  letters.  When  he  had  signed  the  last,  he 
resolutely  picked  up  a  volume  of  Lecky's  "Rationalism," 
retired  with  it  to  his  bedroom  and  began  to  undress.  He 
had  only  removed  his  coat  and  waistcoat  when  he  recog- 
nised the  old,  abrupt,  hated  return  of  wakefulness  which 
could  be  guaranteed  to  keep  rest  at  a  distance  and  yet  left 
his  eyes  and  head  aching  too  much  to  allow  of  further 
work.  Setting  his  teeth,  he  dressed  again,  put  on  his  hat 
and  started  for  a  stroll  through  the  emptying  streets.  As 
he  walked  eastward  towards  Northumberland  Avenue,  a 
number  of  men  in  opera  hats,  with  their  coats  over  their 
arms,  passed  him  incuriously  on  their  leisurely  way  from 
their  clubs  to  bed;  the  last  belated  guests  of  the  Carlton 
were  separating,  and  with  every  step  to  the  south  he  found 
the  streets  more  deserted.  On  the  Embankment  he  paused 
to  watch  the  slow  passage  of  the  barges,  wondering  when 
he  had  done  the  same  thing  before  or  whether  he  was 
merely  repeating  what  he  had  once  done  in  a  dream ;  his 
eyes  became  fixed  on  the  break  and  parting  of  the  waters 
against  the  piles  of  Hungerford  Bridge ;  the  glistening 
black  forked  into  tumbling  silver,  and  he  remembered 
that  silver  and  black  had  once  been  his  father's  racing 
colours  and  that  he  had  once  before  remembered  it,  when 
he  sat  on  the  parapet  by  the  Boadicea  Group — just  before 
meeting  Sidney  Dawson  equally  night-bound,  equally  rid- 
den with  hunger  for  Idina  Penrose.  And,  curiously  enough, 
a  policeman  had  thought  he  was  contemplating  suicide. 
Curious.  .  .    And  at  that  moment,  when  they  discussed  the 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  371 

night-clubs  of  the  'eighties,  neither  had  suspected  the  other ! 
And  Dawson  was  dead  now.  .  . 

"Blackguard!"  Deryk  whispered  fiercely.  Then  he  was 
sorry,  with  a  rare,  irrational  gust  of  sentimentality.  The 
poor  devil  had  been  through  the  agonies  of  hell  before  he 
died;  however  he  had  behaved,  he  was  dead  now.  The 
wonderful  finality  of  death !  He  and  Idina  never  discussed 
the  fellow ;  his  account  was  closed ;  his  troubles — of  course 
he  had  troubles  like  everybody  else — were  over.  And  he 
had  disappeared  like  a  puff  of  smoke,  and  not  twelve  people 
in  the  world  knew  or  noticed! 

That  was  impossible  if  you  were  born  in  any  kind  of 
limelight.  "If  I  put  on  a  jersey  and  signed  on  at  the  Docks, 
does  anyone  think  /  should  be  allowed  to  disappear?" 
Deryk  laughed  bitterly  at  his  own  question;  the  news-cut- 
ting agencies  had  given  him  more  than  two  guineas'  worth 
of  general  education.  People  would  think  he  had  been 
kidnapped;  there  would  be  as  much  fuss  as  when  Living- 
stone disappeared,  rewards  would  be  offered,  search  parties 
organised;  when  the  nonsense  had  begun  to  pall,  some  im- 
postor, the  modern  Orton,  would  lay  claim  to  his  title  and 
estate,  there  would  be  another  Tichborne  case —  "They'll 
never  let  go  of  me  till  they've  seen  me  on  the  slabs  of  a 
mortuary!" 

He  flung  away  from  the  paTapet  and  retraced  his  steps 
up  Northumberland  Avenue,  along  Cockspur  Street  and 
into  Pall  Mall.  Every  club  was  now  hushed  and  dark,  but 
to  his  fancy  a  profounder  shadow  and  more  inviolable  hush 
permeated  and  overhung  his  own  house.  Speechless  and 
motionless  a  constable  stood  sentry  by  the  boarded  door- 
way, only  breaking  the  silence  to  stifle  a  yawn. 

"Poor  devil!"  murmured  Deryk.  It  was  not  the  same 
man  that  he  had  found  when  he  took  Oakleigh  over  the 
place;  that  was  one  good  thing.  Fancy  doing  this  night 
after  night!    "Cigarette,  constable?" 

The  man  looked  cautiously  up  and  down  the  street  and 
took  a  cigarette  from  the  proffered  case. 

".Very  quiet  about  this  time  o'  night,  sir,"  he  volunteered. 


372  MIDAS  AND  SON 

"Dam'  dull,  I  should  call  it,"  Deryk  answered.  "This 
place  looks  a  pretty  fair  mausoleum." 

"A  what,  sir?" 

"A  tomb.    I  think  two  days  of  this  would  finish  me." 

The  man  turned  and  gazed  at  the  spectral,  deserted 
house  with  new  interest. 

"You  think  so,  sir?  It's  Sir  Deryk  Lancing's  new  town 
house;  one  of  these  American  millionaire  gentlemen,  as  I 
understand." 

Deryk  turned  away  to  light  his  cigarette  and  hide  a  smile. 

"An  American,  is  he?" 

"So  I  hear,  sir." 

"What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  he?"  he  asked  carelessly. 

*T  really  can't  say,  sir.  Quite  a  young  chap,  I  believe.  It 
must  be  a  rare  thing  to  be  as  rich  as  that  when  you're  still 
not  much  more  than  a  boy."  He  smiled  and  slapped  one 
hand  against  his  thigh. 

"It  must  be,"  Deryk  assented  drily.  "Good-night,  con- 
stable." 

"Good-night,  sir,  and  thank  you,  sir." 

"It's  a  damned  mausoleum !"  Deryk  growled  as  he  strode 
away  and  sought  his  rooms  once  more. 


By  the  morning  his  mood  had  changed,  and  he  got  up 
with  an  indefinite  sense  that  something  had  happened  to 
bring  him  relief.  As  his  brain  shook  free  from  the  last 
tendrils  of  sleep,  he  recollected  that  he  had  now  more  than 
a  week  of  undisturbed  work  in  prospect.  Nobody  would  so 
much  as  knock  in  a  nail  for  him  on  Bank  Holiday  or  Sun- 
day in  this  precious  independent  England,  but  he  hoped  by 
then  to  have  every  room  completed,  every  picture  in  its 
place,  every  chair  and  table  set  at  the  angle  which  he  had 
ordained  when  he  sketched  out  combinations  and  effects 
on  paper,  like  an  impresario.  The  roof  winter-garden,  with 
its  wide  extent  of  glazing,  would  need  several  weeks  more ; 
he  would  be  unable  to  use  it  this  year,  which  was  a  nui- 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  373 

sance;  and,  more  than  that,  his  hall  would  be  very  dark 
in  the  transition  stage,  while  the  illuminating  dome  was  be- 
ing replaced  by  a  flat  skylight.  But  that  could  not  be 
helped.  He  would  really  not  complain  about  anything  else, 
if  the  inside  of  the  house  were  finished  by  the  end  of  an- 
other week;  then  he  could  move  his  servants  in  and  have 
the  machine  actually  working  when  Idina  and  the  Manistys 
came  for  a  demonstration. 

He  hurried  down  to  the  house  immediately  after  break- 
fast and  stayed  there  until  luncheon,  ordering  the  disposal 
of  his  pictures  along  the  southern  gallery.  A  telephone 
message  from  Idina  told  him  that  she  was  calling  about 
five  in  the  hopes  of  finding  him,  but  that  he  was  not  to 
stay  in  on  her  account.  He  bolted  his  luncheon,  wrote  her 
a  hasty  note  to  excuse  himself  and  went  back  to  work  within 
half  an  hour  of  leaving  it ;  he  was  still  working  when  she 
tried  to  engage  him  for  dinner,  and  it  was  not  until  mid- 
night that  she  telephoned  and  found  him  at  home. 

The  three  calls,  only  finding  him  at  the  third  attempt,  gal- 
vanised Deryk's  conscience. 

'Tm  sorry  I  was  out  when  you  rang  up  before,"  he 
apologised.  "I've  been  slaving  away  all  day,  hanging  pic- 
tures— some  of  them  deuced  heavy.  These  men  are  too 
sickening!  The  only  work  that  anyone  did  at  any  time 
during  the  day  was  done  by  me  single-handed  from  one 
till  two  and  again  when  they'd  left  for  the  night.  I've 
simply  pulled  my  arms  out  of  heir  sockets.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
was  on  my  way  to  bed  when  you  rang  up.  Is  there  any- 
thing you  want?  Just  to  say  good-night.  Oh,  that's  easily 
done !  Good-night,  my  dear  Dina ;  sleep  well  and  God 
bless  you." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  returned  to  his  bedroom, 
only  to  hear  the  bell  ring  again,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold. 

"Curse  these  telephones !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  ran  back. 
"Hullo!  Yes!  Sir  Deryk  Lancing.  Who?"  He  waited, 
while  the  connection  was  made,  and  then,  after  a  "You're 
through  to  Sir  Deryk  Lancing,"  heard  Idina's  voice  again. 

"My  dear,  some  one  cut  us  off  I"  she  complained. 


374  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Der>'k  repressed  his  sense  of  irritation  and  tried  not  to 
feel  guilty  of  discourtesy  or  impatience  towards  her. 

"Was  there  anything  more  that  you  wanted  to  say?"  he 
asked  gently. 

"Yes,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  that  wasn't  the  right  way 
to  say  good-night."  He  could  almost  see  her  lips  curling 
into  a  pout.  "Like  you  used  to  in  the  old  days —  Do  you 
remember  the  first  time  you  rang  me  up  at  Ivy  Cottage? 
I  was  so  frightened !  I  couldn't  think  what  anyone  wanted 
me  for.  Then  you,  like  a  darling  baby,  said  good-night  and 
wouldn't  let  me  go  to  sleep  till  I'd  said  it  'properly,'  what- 
ever you  meant  by  that.  Sweetheart,  I  know  you're  tired, 
but  will  you  just  say  good-night  'properly'?" 

Der}4<;  laughed  uneasily. 

"Whatever  that  means?" 

"Say,  'Good-night,  darling.'  " 

"Good-night,  darling." 

A  whisper  of  a  ghostly  sigh  was  borne  over  the  wires. 

"A  little  more  conviction,  dear  one!" 

Deryk  laughed  again,  with  no  better  effect. 

"I'm  no  good  on  the  telephone.     Good-night,  Dina." 

Again  he  hung  up  the  receiver.  This  time  there  was  no 
new  call.  And  the  following  day  Idina  cut  short  her  shop- 
ping and  went  back  to  Pensington.  He  was  informed  by  a 
note  which  he  found  awaiting  him  on  his  return  home  at 
midnight ;  he  scribbled  a  reply  of  bantering  reproach  to 
her  for  gliding  away  without  taking  the  trouble  to  come  and 
say  good-bye  to  him.  "But,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  don't 
imagine  that  I'm  really  angry  with  you,"  he  concluded.  (He 
had  to  be  so  dreadfully  emphatic  with  her.)  "I  only  feel 
rather  ashamed  of  my  own  arrangements,  because  we  didn't 
see  any  more  of  each  other.  But  I'm  looking  forward  to 
Tuesday ;  if  you  don't  fall  in  love  wath  my  house,  I  shall 
very  rapidly  fall  out  of  love  with  you." 

Then  for  a  week  he  w^as  undisturbed.  As  he  hurried  in 
and  out  of  his  chambers  for  luncheon,  in  and  out  of  the 
County  Club  for  dinner,  he  seemed  to  sleep  and  dream  for 
an  hour  in  a  new  world  with  people  who  talked  about  civil 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  375 

war  in  Ireland  or  a  general  conflagration  in  south-eastern 
Europe.  On  a  lower  intellectual  plane  he  found  men  exult- 
antly discussing  their  holiday  plans  and  mentally  cancelling 
the  days  that  lingeringly  separated  them  from  flannel  suits, 
the  spongy,  yielding  turf  of  their  favourite  golf-course  and 
a  gently  smarting  wind  blowing  in  from  the  sea.  They 
lived  wonderfully  conventional,  regular  lives,  these  K.  C, 
Civil  Service,  "family  business"  fathers  of  children.  Would 
he  have  to  transfer  his  nursery  to  the  East  Coast  to  be 
regularly  and  inexorably  "braced"  for  six  weeks  each  sum- 
mer, whatever  else  he  might  want  to  do  ?  Marriage  was  an 
extraordinarily  comprehensive  thing.  .  .  . 

On  tlie  morning  of  his  luncheon  party  he  satisfied  him- 
self that  the  house  was  complete  in  every  respect,  with 
the  exception  of  the  winter-garden.  Whether  his  party 
would  be  equally  complete  was  open  to  doubt,  for  every- 
body seemed  to  be  getting  into  a  state  of  amazing  restless- 
ness, almost  panic.  That  was  where  he  scored  an  advan- 
tage over  other  people,  that  was  where  his  peculiar  quality  of 
brain  asserted  itself ;  he  could  detach  himself  from  the  pre- 
vailing emotion  of  the  moment  and  see  a  thing  exactly  as  it 
was,  remaining  intellectually  undisturbed  by  the  elation, 
hope,  fear  or  dejection  of  his  neighbours.  Poor  Idina 
thought  him  very  unsympathetic,  when  he  applied  analysis 
to  life,  but  the  quality  was  there,  inside  him,  inherited  from 
his  father.  It  had  obvious  limitations,  of  course;  he  might 
be  unimaginative,  slow  to  take  a  point,  ignorant,  at  fault  in 
his  psychology,  but  at  least  what  he  did  see  he  saw  clearly 
in  great  black  and  white  lines.  On  the  strength  of  that 
alone  he  could  always  be  richer  than  other  people ;  he  could 
always  earn  any  salary  he  liked  simply  by  keeping  his  head, 
as  his  father  had  done  when  the  homeless  survivors  of  a 
burnt-out  city  in  the  Middle  West  stampeded  from  a  site 
that  was  paved  with  gold.  .  .  People  were  going  about  on 
Bank  Holiday,  shaking  their  heads  and  gloomily  saying,  "Is 
there  really  going  to  be  a  war?  Isn't  it  appalling?"  It 
was  curious  how  their  judgment  was  warped  by  their  senti- 
ment !    It  might  be  appalling ;  certainly  there  was  going  to 


376  MIDAS  AND  SON 

be  war :  on  a  very  big  scale ;  a  fight  to  the  finish  with  years 
of  suspicion  and  jealousy  to  prepare  the  mood;  the  sort  of 
war  that  might  go  on  for  any  number  of  years,  ranging 
over  several  continents  and  every  sea,  gradually  sucking 
down  one  man  after  another,  one  nation  after  another,  and 
probably  ending  in  the  exhaustion  of  the  civilised  world  for 
a  generation.  If  people  would  only  take  the  trouble  to 
think,  they  must  see  this.  England,  France,  Russia,  Ger- 
many, Austria — they  could  not  go  to  war  as  though  it  were 
punt-about.  .  . 

His  guests  did  not  disappoint  him,  though  Idina  arrived 
barely  in  time  and  protested  that  the  extension  of  the  Bank 
Holiday  had  disorganised  all  train  services.  Her  journey 
had  taken  twice  the  usual  time,  and  all  the  railway  officials 
expected  to  have  the  old  time-table  knocked  to  pieces  and 
civilian  traffic  entirely  suspended  during  the  mobilisation. 
Everyone  had  made  up  his  mind  that  war  was  inevitable, 
people  were  now  discussing  its  probable  length  and  making 
preparations  to  meet  the  reduction  of  their  incomes  by  half. 
Deryk  wondered  how  his  income  would  be  affected.  So 
far  as  there  was  a  general  fall  in  the  value  of  securities,  he 
supposed  that  he  stood  to  be  a  very  heavy  loser,  if  he  tried 
to  sell  anything;  on  the  other  hand,  his  income  would  cer- 
tainly not  diminish  and  might  actually  increase,  Sir  Aylmer 
had  so  cunningly  succeeded  in  exacting  toll  on  the  neces- 
sities of  life ;  people  had  to  live  somewhere,  to  get  from 
one  place  to  another  by  steamship  and  railroad,  to  warm 
and  light  their  houses ;  and  the  Lancing  Trust  Corporation 
appeared  at  every  stage  to  insist  on  its  toll.  Income  ac- 
tually increase?  The  price  of  money  would  rise  steadily 
with  every  new  demand  by  any  of  the  belligerents :  he  had 
a  considerable  balance  and  enormous  liquid  assets  to  realise 
and  lend ;  instead  of  being  a  heavy  loser  by  selling,  it  might 
pay  him  to  sell,  to  get  rid  of  low-yielding  securities  and 
take  advantage  of  the  appreciating  value  of  money.  He 
must  talk  to  Hats  about  this ;  they  must  get  into  touch  with 
the  directors  in  New  York.  .  . 

"You're  very  silent,  Deryk,"  Yolande  observed,  when  the 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  377 

hincheon  was  a  quarter-way  through  without  a  word  from 
him  except  to  give  his  orders. 

"Sorry!  I've  been  thinking,"  he  exclaimed.  "Assuming 
that  war  of  any  kind  breaks  out,  I  shall  make  the  deuce  of  a 
lot  of  money,  the  very  deuce  of  a  lot." 

Yolande  looked  at  him  and  suddenly  bit  her  lip. 

"I  could  almost  kill  you  for  saying  that !"  she  exclaimed. 
"When  people  are  going  off  to  be  slaughtered,  for  anyone 
to  sit  at  home  and  think  how  he  can  make  money  out  of  the 
war,  especially  when  he's  a  multi-millionaire " 

'That's  the  reason,  stupid !"  Deryk  answered  with  grating 
good-humour.  "My  money's  the  first  thing  about  me  to 
be  affected  by  anything.  If  I  weren't  a  multi-millionaire, 
I  couldn't  make  much  money  at  the  present  time,  but  I 
can't  help  it,  it's  like  water  running  down-hill.  You  can 
bet  my  people  in  New  York  have  been  getting  busy  the  last 
few  days." 

Yolande's  convictions  struggled  for  a  moment  with  her 
social  propriety. 

"Well,  don't  let's  talk  about  it,"  she  begged  him  by  way 
of  compromise.  "My  brother's  rejoined  his  regiment  this 
morning,  and  the  next  thing  I  may  hear  is  that  he  has  been 
killed!"  She  felt  that  her  tone  must  be  sounding  bitter 
and  turned  to  Idina  with  a  change  of  voice  and  expression. 
"You  never  met  my  brother  Archie,  did  you?  He's  in  the 
Black  Watch.  .  ." 

Deryk's  mind  was  recalled  to  a  general  consideration  of 
the  war.  It  would  be  a  serious  thing,  involving  vast  num- 
bers— literally  armed  nations  at  each  other's  throats — 
there  v/as  no  limit  to  the  men  who  would  be  wanted. 

"Ought  I  to  join  the  Territorials  or  do  anything  of  that 
kind?"  he  asked  Yolande.  "I've  never  done  any  soldiering 
before,  I  should  have  to  start  from  the  beginning " 

"The  war  would  be  over  before  you'd  finished  drilling," 
she  answered.     "Besides,  you'd  never  stand  it." 

Deryk  smiled  in  confident  self-assurance. 

"I'm  pretty  healthy,"  he  told  her. 

"You'd  never  stand  army  discipline,  dear  Deryk.    Think 


378  MIDAS  AND  SON 

of  doing  all  your  moving,  talking,  thinking  by  numbers,  at 
someone  else's  orders,  think  of  having  to  salute  a  superior 
officer,  think  of  having  to  obey  and  never  being  allowed  to 
argue!     My  dear,  you've  not  got  grit  enough  for  the  job." 

She  affected  to  laugh  at  him,  but  there  was  a  taunt  in  her 
voice,  and  he  heard  more  of  the  taunt  than  of  the  laugh. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  stiffly.  "This  wasn't  mere  talk,  I 
was  thinking  of  volunteering,  if  war  broke  out — as  it's 
bound  to  do  now — atoning  for  my  wasted  life,  you  know," 
he  added  with  heavy  sarcasm.  Then  his  eyes  shone  with 
sudden  excitement.  "What  an  opportunity  a  thing  like  this 
must  be  to  people  who've  made  a  mess  of  their  lives!  A 
shipwreck,  fire,  flood,  war — anything  of  that  kind — whether 
you  come  out  of  it  alive  or  not,  people  think  you've  re- 
deemed yourself.  If  I  went  out  to-morrow  and  took  a  bul- 
let through  my  brain " 

"Please  don't,  Deryk !" 

He  glanced  up  to  find  Idina  looking  at  him  with  eyes  full 
of  tears. 

"It's  perfectly  true,"  he  went  on  excitedly.  "People  don't 
criticise  me  much  as  yet,  because  they  think  I'm  still  pretty 
young,  but  they'll  let  themselves  go,  as  I  get  a  bit  older,  if 
I  don't  do  something.  My  life  is  wasted,  I've  done  nothing 
so  far,  and  the  devil  of  it  is  that  I  see  no  prospect  of  doing 
anything  in  the  future.  If  I  got  altruistically  knocked  on 
the  head,  everyone  would  say  that  it  was  magnificent  of 
me  to  be  fighting  at  all — as  for  being  killed.  .  .  ." 

"D-Der}'k,  old  man,  you're  t-talking  about  yourself  t-too 
much." 

It  was  the  first  time  Felix  had  spoken.  He  had  sat 
down  smiling  with  obvious  pleasure  at  finding  himself  in  a 
new  restaurant ;  he  had  removed  his  spectacles  and  polished 
them,  the  better  to  gaze  round  the  sunlit  dining-room ; 
only  by  slow  degrees  had  he  concentrated  his  interest  on  his 
own  table,  and  by  that  time  his  wife  was  flushed  and  Idina 
almost  in  tears,  while  Deryk  seemed  to  be  prosing  and 
swaggering  rather  objectionably. 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  379 

"Sorry.  Let's  talk  of  something  else,"  said  Deryk  with 
heightened  colour. 

He  was  staggered  to  find  such  a  reproof  coming  from 
the  gentle  Felix.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  down  on  him 
to-day,  visiting  private  irritability  on  him  because  he  saw 
clearly,  and  they  did  not.  And,  as  though  he  had  said  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  Felix  was  now  chatting 
away  to  Idina.  .  . 

"Tell  us  what  the  house  is  like,"  Yolande  suggested  in 
an  undertone.  "I  don't  even  know  how  many  floors  or 
rooms  you've  got." 

"And  you  don't  in  the  least  want  to  hear,"  he  retorted 
with  an  open  sneer  for  her  artificial  politeness. 

Yolande  blushed  vividly. 

"Indeed  I  do.  The  strain  of  the  last  few  days  has  tired 
my  nerves,  so  that  I'm  afraid  of  forgetting  my  manners." 

At  last  Deryk  seemed  a  little  out  of  countenance. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me,"  he  whispered 
fiercely.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  but  I — I  can't  bear 
myself." 

When  luncheon  was  over  they  walked  from  the  Ritz  to 
Pall  Mall,  and  Yolande  found  an  opportunity  of  warning 
her  husband  that  Deryk  was  making  every  preparation  for 
another  breakdown.  "He's  in  a  state  when  even  Dina  gets 
on  his  nerves.    /  don't  know  what  to  do  with  him !" 

"If  he  w-wants  to  be  a  T-Territorial,  let  him  be,"  Felix 
urged.  "The  training  would  do  him  all  the  g-good  in  the 
world." 

"/  didn't  mean  to  stop  him.  He'll  hate  it,  though,  and  I'm 
afraid  it's  come  too  late  for  the  country  and  for  him.  Oh, 
I  wish  I  knew  what  was  going  to  happen !" 

At  the  bottom  of  St.  James'  Street  they  met  George  Oak- 
leigh  coming  down  the  steps  of  the  Eclectics'  Club;  almost 
unconsciously  and  before  they  had  decided  to  speak,  they 
were  standing  in  a  circle  of  five,  talking  with  a  rare  inti- 
macy unjustified  by  anything  in  their  relationship. 

"Quite  inevitable,  everybody  says,"  reported  Oakleigh. 
"You  didn't  miss  much  by  not  coming  to  Chepstow,  Mrs. 


38o  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Dawson ;  the  party  began  disintegrating  almost  before  it 
arrived,  and  Lord  Loring  and  I  brought  up  the  last  he- 
roic survivors  this  morning.  It  v^as  an  awful  week-end ! 
We  were  so  helpless,  so  far  away.  Things  are  no  better 
now  that  we're  back  in  town,  but  we  don't  feel  so  much 
out  of  it.  Well,  the  Kaiser  has  till  midnight,  and  then  no 
one  knows.  In  a  way  people  were  rather  optimistic  at  the 
Club;  of  course,  the  Germans  never  intended  to  bring  us  in, 
so  it  is  to  be  hoped  that,  with  us  in,  we  shall  be  able  to  end 
the  thing  within  a  few  weeks.  But  it's  a  dreadful  business ; 
I  can't  believe  it's  true.  Now,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  I  must 
fly;  I  hear  my  old  uncle's  rather  seedy." 

As  he  turned  and  hurried  up  St.  James'  Street,  Deryk 
took  Idina  by  the  arm  and  crossed  obliquely  to  Marlbor- 
ough House. 

"Dangerous  crossing  this,"  he  observed.  "Old  Maurice 
Weybridge  was  very  nearly  killed  here  a  few  years  ago — 
knocked  down  by  a  car.  Did  you  ever  know  him  ?  He  was 
up  at  the  House,  and  I  met  him  on  the  Bullingdon.  .  .  . 
I  believe  he's  permanently  lost  the  use  of  his  legs,  which 
is  bad  luck  on  a  keen  hunting  man.  I'd  sooner  have  been 
killed  outright." 

They  had  reached  the  kerb,  and  Deryk  relaxed  his  arm, 
but  Idina  caught  him  by  the  wrist  and  retained  her  hold. 

"Darling,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so  much  about  being 
killed !"  she  implored  him.  "You  made  me  feel  so  wretched 
at  lunch,  and  I  went  there  to  enjoy  myself  because  I  hadn't 
seen  you  for  days  and  days  and  because  I'd  never  been  to 
the  Ritz  before.  Sweetheart,  you  don't  want  to  spoil  my 
day,  do  vou  ?  And  you  will,  if  you  go  on  talking  about  be- 
ing killed." 

"So  long  as  it's  only  talk "  Deryk  began. 

Idina's  grip  tightened  on  his  wrist. 

"My  dear,  do  you  remember  the  night  when  we  dined 
with  the  Oakleighs  ?  I  went  to  bed  the  moment  I  got  home 
and  fell  asleep  almost  immediately.  Then  I  had  the  most 
awful  nightmare  of  my  life;  I  dreamed  that  you  were 
dead!" 


WHAT  COMES  OUT  IN  THE  FLESH  381 

Deryk  sorted  out  his  recollections  of  the  night. 

"It  wasn't  such  a  bad  guess,"  he  commented.  "I  had  a 
diminutive  fire  in  my  rooms,  and  it  might  easily  have  proved 
serious." 

"Isn't  that  what  people  call  telepathy?"  she  asked  with 
timid  devotion. 

"It's  what  damned  fools  call  telepathy,"  he  answered 
roughly.  "/  burned  a  hole  in  the  carpet,  and  you  dreamed 
that  I  was  dead.  If  you  can  trace  any  kind  of  connection 
— let  alone  the  thousands  of  times  you  must  have  had  sim- 
ilar dreams  without  even  that  amount  of  coincidence " 

"Never  that  one,  Deryk !  The  tears  were  streaming  down 
my  face,  when  I  woke  up !" 

As  they  approached  the  doorway  of  the  house,  Deryk 
turned  to  her  with  dispassionate,  critical  interest. 

"If  I  had  been  burned  to  death "  he  began, 

"Oh,  darling,  don't!     It  would  have  killed  me!" 

Deryk  shook  his  head  with  great  assurance. 

"No,  it  wouldn't,"  he  told  her.  "It  would  have  been  a 
great  shock  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  it  wouldn't  have 
killed  you ;  you  wouldn't  have  gone  to  bed  and  quietly  wilted 
away.  After  all,  you've  been  through  something  that  was 
worse,  when  you  thought  I'd  got  tired  of  you,  that  I'd 
ceased  to  care  for  you " 

"I  couldn't  go  through  that  again,"  she  whispered  with 
tense  tragedy  of  tone. 

"I  was  better  worth  having  in  those  days,"  Deryk  went 
on,  almost  to  himself.  "Cleaner,  healthier,  more  of  a  man, 
not  so  damned  neurotic  or  self-absorbed.  .  .  And,  my  God, 
I  loved  you  then,  Dina." 

"Don't  you  love  me  now,  Deryk?"  she  asked  with  a 
laugh  of  happy  incredulity. 

"I  don't  believe  I  could  ever  love  anybody  as  I  loved 
you  then;  I  don't  believe  anyone  has  ever  loved  anyone 
else  as  I  loved  you.  .  ."  He  broke  off  with  a  thin-lipped 
laugh  and  looked  up  at  the  house  with  its  great  studded 
door  now  exposed  to  view  for  the  first  time  and  the  shal- 
low marble  steps  at  last  liberated  from  their  sloping  plank 


382  MIDAS  AND  SON 

causeway.  "My  servants  move  in  to-night;  the  only  work 
remaining  to  be  done  is  the  roof-garden,  and,  despite  the 
extra  bank  hoHday,  I  believe  I've  got  a  few  stalwart  glaziers 
to  come  and  put  in  a  few  hours'  work.  Hurry  up,  Yolande ! 
You're  keeping  everything  waiting.  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, the  Lancing  Mausoleum  will  now  be  declared  open !" 

Felix  threw  away  the  stump  of  his  cigar,  and  all  col- 
lected on  the  steps,  while  Deryk  fitted  his  latch-key  into 
the  lock. 

"Deryk,  don't !     Please,"  whispered  Idina. 

"Sorry!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  your  fault  for  talking 
about  your  dream.  That  night  after  the  fire  I  strolled 
out  into  the  streets  and  talked  to  the  bobby  on  duty  here. 
In  the  course  of  conversation,  I  happened  to  describe  the 
house — ^at  night,  you  understand,  with  planks  over  the  door- 
way and  round  blobs  of  white  paint  on  all  the  windows, 
and  an  amazing  great  moon  up  behind — I  described  it  as 
being  like  a  mausoleum.  The  word  happens  to  have  lin- 
gered in  my  memory,  but  that's  all.  I  can  assure  you  that's 
all.  Curious  how  a  phrase  sticks.  .  .  I  had  nothing  else 
in  mind!  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER    VIII 
A    Question  of  Expediency 

"Michael  has  a  clean  burial  in  the  far  north,  by  the  grace  of 
the  Almighty  God.  Bartly  will  have  a  fine  coffin  out  of  the  white 
boards,  and  a  deep  grave  surely.  What  more  can  he  want  than 
that?  No  man  at  all  can  be  living  for  ever,  and  we  must  be 
satisfied." 

J.  M.  Synge:    Riders  to  the  Sea. 


Deryk's  latch-key  turned  stiffly  in  the  lock ;  he  pulled  the 
bolts  out  of  their  sockets  and  flung  open  the  double  doors, 
watching  with  pride  their  perfect  poise  and  deliberate, 
smooth  movement.  After  the  heat  and  glare  of  Pall  Mall 
the  hall  with  its  mosaic  pavement  and  white  marble  pillars 
seemed  cold  and  dark;  triangular  shafts  of  light,  varying 
in  extent  and  intensity,  shone  into  the  gloom  from  the 
doors  of  the  rooms  opening  out  of  the  hall,  but  the  great 
central  glass  dome,  which  had  been  used  to  light  the  whole 
interior  of  the  building,  was  now  removed,  and  the  circular 
orifice  was  covered  with  planks.  Feet  could  be  heard  pass- 
ing and  repassing  over  them,  until  the  planks  bent  in  the 
middle  and  let  in  chinks  of  light  on  either  side ;  from  time 
to  time  there  came  the  merciless,  hollow  reverberation  of  a 
hammer  on  a  steel  girder's  end,  but  no  workmen  were  vis- 
ible, and  the  noise  alone  suggested  their  presence. 

"Then  I  have  a  glass  skylight,  flush  with  the  roof,"  Deryk 
explained ;  "and  the  winter  garden,  or  whatever  you  choose 
to  call  it,  above  that.  I'll  take  you  up  there  when  I've  shewn 
you  round  the  rest  of  the  place.  Starting  with  the  ground 
floor,  you  have  dining-room,  smoking-room,  ball-room 
and  my  own  study.    We'll  take  the  dining-room  first." 

383 


384  MIDAS  AND  SON 

For  two  hours  he  led  them  through  room  after  room, 
explaining,  describing  and  answering  questions.  Neither 
Felix  nor  Idina  was  in  a  position  to  criticise  with  knowl- 
edge, but  in  an  unmethodical,  haphazard  way  Yolande  had 
picked  up  a  considerable  amateur  knowledge  of  furniture, 
which  was  at  least  sufificient  to  impress  Deryk  and  to  enable 
her  to  appreciate  how  easily  he  surpassed  her.  Equally  at 
home  in  Italy,  Spain,  France  and  England,  he  had  carried 
out  a  dozen  schemes  in  as  many  rooms  with  the  minutest 
attention  to  rugs  and  hangings,  fire-places,  illumination,  pic- 
tures, ornaments  and  bibelots,  until  each  room  was  a  com- 
plete and  perfect  example  of  a  period  in  the  art  of  deco- 
ration. 

"I  had  no  idea  it  was  to  be  like  this !"  Yolande  gasped,  as 
he  led  her  away  from  the  last  of  three  Empire  drawing- 
rooms. 

"You  didn't  know  I  was  keen  on  furniture?  That's 
really  why  I  took  this  place.  Ripley  Court  was  so  crammed 
that  you  could  do  nothing  short  of  improvising  a  bonfire 
and  cleaning  out  everything.    This  gave  me  an  opportunity." 

They  were  standing  on  the  south  side,  looking  down  on  to 
Carlton  Garden,  and  Yolande  felt  that  with  a  single  book 
on  one  of  the  tables,  a  single  piece  of  embroidery  dropped 
carelessly  across  the  arm  of  one  of  the  chairs,  the  room 
would  look  as  if  it  had  been  continuously  inhabited  since 
the  house  was  built. 

"And  you  did  it  all  in  about  two  months!  No  wonder 
you're  feeling  overdone !" 

"It  was  hard  work,  but  that  never  killed  a  man.  I'm  all 
right,  Yolande;  you  can  say  I've  had  too  much  London,  if 
you  like,  but  that's  all.  And  I  can  go  away  now  that  this 
place  is  pretty  well  finished.  By  the  way,  you  must  come 
and  see  my  roof  garden." 

He  hurried  her  the  length  of  the  gallery  and  up  a  stair- 
case past  the  second  floor  on  to  the  flat  roof.  Felix  and 
Idina  were  left  to  follow  as  best  they  might,  and  indeed 
with  as  long  an  interval  as  possible ;  Deryk  was  deriving  a 
wonderful,  unexpected  enjoyment  of  the  afternoon  from 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       385 

his  discussions  and  disagreements  with  Yolande ;  he  had 
always  known  her  to  be  intelhgent,  but  he  had  never  im- 
agined that  she  had  any  knowledge  of  furniture.  They 
had  fought  out  each  room,  almost  each  piece  in  each  room ; 
and  she  had  not  only  told  him  where  she  thought  him 
wrong,  but  had  given  him  reasons  which  set  him  thinking. 
That  was  Yolande's  greatest  charm ;  she  had  a  personality, 
strong  individual  preferences  and  reasons  to  back  them. 
She  might  be  wrong,  but  she  was  never  weakly  wrong; 
when  her  one  epithet  for  Mozart  was  "obvious,"  when 
she  preferred  Verdi  to  Rossini,  when  she  failed  to  see 
that  Strauss  was  as  far  ahead  of  Wagner  as  Wagner  of 
Donizetti,  when  she  considered  Miss  Austen  and  Stevenson 
the  most  overrated  of  all  the  great  nineteenth  century 
prose  writers,  she  was  not  to  be  shaken  or  suppressed 
without  a  stiff  fight.  If  you  told  Idina  that  Charles  Kings- 
ley  was  anything  but  seventh-rate,  she  would  probably  be- 
lieve you.  .  . 

"I've  never  seen  such  a  view  in  my  life!"  Yolande  cried, 
with  her  hands  resting  on  the  rail  running  round  the  edge 
and  her  eyes,  with  pupils  ecstatically  dilated,  travelling  slow- 
ly in  a  half-circle  from  east  to  west,  from  the  Admiralty 
Arch  to  the  Foreign  Office  and  the  tops  of  the  Abbey  towers, 
thence  to  Westminster  Cathedral,  Buckingham  Palace  and 
the  Mall  almost  below  her. 

"It  was  worth  keeping,"  said  Deryk  proprietorially  count- 
ing the  iron  standards  which  were  to  hold  his  glass  frame. 

She  turned  critically  to  the  boarded  skylight. 

"Of  course,  you're  going  to  make  your  hall  very  dark," 
she  warned  him. 

They  were  still  heatedly  engaged  in  argument  when 
Idina  joined  them,  Deryk  elaborately  explaining  that  his 
new  skylight  would  illuminate  through  an  area  actually 
larger  by  forty  square  inches. 

"But  you've  got  another  roof  over  and  above  that,"  Yo- 
lande demonstrated.  "Well,  Dina,  what  do  you  think  of  it 
all?" 

"It's  divine!"    She  stood  with  her  hands  clasped,  pivot- 


386  MIDAS  AND  SON 

ing  on  one  heel  and  looking  about  her.  "Deryk,  you  really 
are  wonderful.  And  Mr.  Oakleigh  told  me  that  I  was  extra- 
ordinarily trusting  to  let  you  decorate  my  drawing-room 
without  consulting  me !  Every  room's  so  perfect  that  I 
don't  know  which  I  like  best." 

"You  mustn't  make  him  conceited,"  Yolande  cut  in.  "I 
was  telling  him  that  he's  spoiling  his  hall  by  taking  away  so 
much  of  the  light.    Don't  you  think  I'm  right?" 

Idina  looked  at  the  sky-light  of  thick  frosted  glass,  lying 
on  its  iron  frame  by  the  side  of  the  circular  opening  in  the 
roof. 

"I  suppose  it  zmll  make  it  rather  dark,"  she  agreed. 

Deryk  lit  a  cigarette  and  threw  away  the  match  with  a 
gesture  of  impatience. 

"How  is  it  possible  to  say  that  without  seeing  the  sky- 
light and  the  glass  roof  in  place?"  he  demanded.  "This 
actually  lets  in  more  light,  with  less  reduction  for  frame, 
than  the  old  dome.   If  you'll  take  the  trouble  to  look.  .  .  ." 

Conscious  that  he  was  becoming  shrill  and  excited,  he 
bent  down  to  the  opening  and  untied  the  builders'  tarpaulin 
sheet;  then  he  loosened  the  rope  that  coupled  the  planks 
together  and  pulled  half  a  dozen  away  from  the  middle. 

"Now  you  can  see !"  he  called  from  the  far  side,  rather 
red  in  the  face,  as  he  dusted  his  clothes. 

"Ah,  yes,  D-don't  fall  in !"  Felix  answered.  He  saun- 
tered away  to  the  north  side  and  looked  down  upon  Pall 
Mall.  "S-something's  upset  him,"  he  whispered  to  Yolande ; 
"he'll  be  rude  to  her  in  one  m-minute.  T-tell  her  to  come  to 
tea  with  us ;  then  you'll  br-break  up  the  party." 

Yolande  nodded,  looked  at  her  watch  and  issued  the 
invitation  with  fine  spontaneity.  As  Idina  began  to  accept 
it,  however,  Deryk  abandoned  a  sketch  of  the  roof  garden 
which  he  was  drawing  for  her  in  his  pocket-book  and 
intervened  with  an  announcement  that  tea  was  actually 
awaiting  them  in  his  rooms. 

"I'd  no  idea  it  was  so  late,"  he  said.  "Dina,  will  you  be 
hostess  and  take  Yolande  and  Felix  along?  I'll  follow  as 
soon  as  I've  finished  the  sketch  and  put  this  gear  back  in 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       387 

place :  I  daren't  leave  It  open  in  this  climate,  or  I  shall  get 
my  hall  flooded.  Straight  down  the  staircase,  and  shut 
the  front  door  as  you  go  out,  because  there's  not  a  soul  in 
the  place.    I'll  be  with  you  in  a  few  minutes." 

As  the  women  picked  up  their  skirts  and  walked  down 
the  still  unpainted  top  flight  of  stairs,  Deryk  gathered  the 
planks  into  a  pile  and  sat  down  on  them  to  finish  his  draw- 
ing. He  seemed  to  have  worked  so  hard  to  keep  his  team 
together,  and,  with  the  exception  of  a  moment's  conversa- 
tion with  Yolande,  the  whole,  endless  party  had  been  so 
disastrous  a  failure  that  he  was  glad  to  be  by  himself  for 
however  short  a  respite  he  could  secure.  Was  it  the  pros- 
pect of  war  that  was  making  them  all  so  jumpy,  causing 
Yolande  to  lose  her  temper  with  him,  Felix  to  snub  him 
and  Dina — well,  it  had  been  the  other  way  round  with  her, 
he  had  been  vilely  rude  to  her,  but  she  must  develop  a 
mind  of  her  own,  and  her  fragments  of  criticism,  as  they 
floated  across  to  him,  were  worthy  of  schoolgirls  admiring 
a  baby  or  a  new  Pekinese.  She  did  not  do  him  very  much 
credit ;  and  it  was  so  infernally  monotonous.  .  . 

He  finished  the  sketch  and  strolled  to  the  north  side, 
where  he  stood  leaning  against  the  rail  and  smoking  another 
cigarette.  Pall  Mall  seemed  astonishingly  full  of  soldiers, 
every  third  man  was  in  khaki.  .  .  .  From  a  set  of  bachelor 
chambers  opposite  him  came  the  sound  of  a  piano  and  of 
inexpert  fingers  trying  to  conjure  the  Marseillaise  from 
the  keys.  ("Not  like  that!"  he  exclaimed.  "Dam'  good 
mind  to  go  over  and  play  it  for  him.")  The  war  was 
all-penetrating,  all-enveloping,  though  the  ultimatum  would 
not  expire  till  midnight.  Then  probably  the  entire  popula- 
tion of  London  would  assemble  in  the  streets  and  shout 
"God  Save  the  King,"  and  there  would  be  an  orgy  of  cheap 
patriotism  until  the  war  was  over — Roberts  and  Kitchener 
on  buttons,  sold  in  the  street ;  and  a  great  deal  of  flag-wav- 
ing, as  in  the  old  South  African  days.  .  .  He  regretted 
bitterly  that  he  had  never  had  any  training  as  a  volunteer; 
it  was  not  that  he  cared  a  straw  for  the  neutrality  of  Bel- 
gium or  whatever  the  trouble  was,  but  he  did  not  want  to 


388  MIDAS  AND  SON 

be  left  out  of  a  new  experience  which  others  would  go  out 
and  enjoy.  And  it  would  take  him  at  least  six  months  to 
train,  and  by  that  time  the  war  would  be  over.  .  . 

At  the  end  of  the  six  months  everything  would  go  on  as 
before,  a  war  between  England  and  Germany  was  a  war 
between  a  whale  and  an  elephant ;  he  had  thought  at  lunch- 
eon that  it  must  go  on  for  years,  but  a  war  on  this  scale 
could  only  be  a  matter  of  weeks;  Germany  would  just  be 
shewn  that  she  could  not  browbeat  Europe  at  pleasure, 
everybody  would  lose  a  good  many  lives  and  spend  an  ap- 
palling amount  of  money,  but  higher  taxation,  possibly 
some  form  of  military  training,  would  be  the  only  change. 
He  would  go  on  at  Ripley  Court  or  here ;  some  people,  ap- 
parently— to  judge  from  the  state  of  panic  at  the  Club- 
were  losing  money,  but  others  would  make  a  lot — he  was 
one — and,  so  long  as  money  was  in  the  hands  of  the  same 
class,  it  mattered  little  which  members  held  it;  the  old 
social  life  would  go  on  as  before,  there  was  no  hope  of 
excitement  as  in  '71 — an  abdication,  a  commune.  Really, 
he  was  a  baronet,  so  perhaps  he  ought  not  to  talk  (though 
he  had  not  been  consulted),  but  could  anything  be  im- 
agined more  ridiculous  than  the  relics  of  feudalism  in  Eng- 
land ?  He  would  fight  on  anybody's  side  if  it  made  England 
a  republic ;  but  it  was  one  thing  to  make  England  a  republic, 
and  something  very  different  to  make  the  Englishman  re- 
publican. .  . 

Because  he  was  republican  and  in  despite  of  Sir  Aylmer's 
warning  against  "superiority,"  he  had  always  rather  de- 
spised the  Junker  gang  in  England ;  he  was  in  it,  but  not  of 
it ;  he  was  really  not  of  any  particular  class  or  school,  and 
that  explained  much — his  boredom,  his  want  of  sympathy 
with  other  people's  ridiculous  preoccupations,  his  utter  in- 
ability to  find  anything  to  do.  .  .  .  Now  that  the  great 
house  was  almost  finished,  he  was  out  of  employment,  unless 
he  took  over  from  Hatherly  and  the  London  office  the 
English  control  of  the  Trust, — which  was  really  making 
work  for  himself.  Of  course,  he  might  go  on  looking  for 
some  imaginative  use  to  which  his  money  could  be  put,  but 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       389 

he  was  growing  to  be  sceptical  over  that ;  Sir  Aylmer  was 
not  the  first  milHonaire  in  history,  but  of  all  their  number 
Cecil  Rhodes  alone  had  departed  from  the  facile  practice 
of  giving  doles  to  libraries  and  hospitals.  It  was  not  so 
easy,  after  all,  whatever  Raymond  Stornaway  might  think 
— as  he  would  find  if  any  unexpected  accident  within  the 
next  few  weeks  put  him  in  possession  of  the  estate  to  which 
he  was  already  heir.  .  . 

Deryk  abruptly  let  fall  his  cigarette.  He  had  just  re- 
membered that  Raymond  had  set  out  for  Vienna  some 
weeks  before  and  was  probably  still  out  there.  And,  if  he 
did  not  get  away  very  speedily,  he  would  find  himself  shut 
up  in  a  fortress,  or  whatever  you  did  with  foreigners  who 
happened  to  be  in  your  country  when  war  broke  out.  Poor 
fat  Raymond !  How  he  would  hate  it !  He  must  find  out 
from  Yolande  whether  any  news  had  been  received,  wheth- 
er he  had  actually  got  back  (it  was  hard  to  keep  count  of 
time  when  you  were  busy  on  things,  as  he  had  been  on  the 
house,  for  weeks  on  end).  And,  by  the  same  token,  they 
must  be  waiting  for  him  at  his  rooms  ! 

To  his  dismay  he  found  that  it  was  past  six  o'clock,  but 
he  could  still  hardly  bear  to  go  back  to  them.  The  fact 
of  the  matter  was  that  they  got  on  his  nerves  and  that  he 
preferred  his  own  company ;  this  was  really  the  most  ex- 
quisite moment  of  the  afternoon,  when  he  had  got  rid  of 
them  all ;  a  man  must  be  very  much  in  love  to  prefer  any 
woman's  society  to  his  own.  Of  course,  there  were  mo- 
ments when  you  yearned  to  be  with  a  woman,  as  he  had 
yearned  when  he  tramped  the  streets,  with  restless,  hot  eyes, 
yearning  to  hear  Idina's  voice  rather  timidly  saying  "good- 
night" to  him  over  the  telephone.  She  had  a  very  sweet 
voice  and  beautiful  eyes  and  an  extraordinarily  slender 
softness  and  warmth;  one  arm  would  go  all  the  way  round 
her  shoulders  without  unduly  crushing  her — as  he  knew ; 
at  such  m.oments,  seen  from  such  angles,  she  was  irresist- 
ible ;  but  the  fascination  was  momentary,  and  he  was  trying 
to  decide  whether  he  would  sooner  forego  moments  of 


390  MIDAS  AND  SON 

ecstasy  or  be  spared  hours  of  retribution.  Boredom,  rather, 
to  improve  the  antithesis.  .  . 

What  would  their  common  life  be?  With  her,  as  with 
any  other  woman,  there  would  be  constant  sacrifices  of  per- 
sonal choice,  eternal  surrender  to  whim,  everlasting  expo- 
sure to  the  blackmailing  charge  that  he  was  causing  her 
pain  ;  he  must  expect  what  every  man  had  to  endure  through 
tying  himself  to  something  irrational  and  capricious,  it  was 
the  age-old  penalty  of  being  too  weak  to  live  independent  of 
woman's  company.  And,  in  addition  to  humouring  her, 
he  must  share  his  life  with  her,  they  must  do  everything 
in  pairs.  ,  .  It  took  some  imagination  and  considerable 
time  to  appreciate  what  that  meant ;  he  knew  his  own  life 
at  Ripley  Court  and  in  London  and  he  could  form  a  rough 
conception  of  the  extent  to  which  it  would  be  modified  if  he 
associated  a  woman  with  it.  How  far  the  modification 
would  prove  irksome  depended  entirely  on  the  woman.  So 
far  he  had  only  lived  with  Lucile  Welman,  and  those  form- 
ative weeks  had  been  made  possible  by  the  physical  spell 
which  she  cast  upon  him,  by  the  primitive,  possessive  hun- 
ger which  nerved  her  to  retain  him,  by  her  experienced  arts 
and  patiently  acquired  psychology.  Other  men  had  lived 
with  her,  she  understood  them ;  she  could  do  what  she  liked 
with  them  so  long  as  the  insecure  union  lasted;  she  could 
make  the  union  last  as  long  as  she  usually  wanted  and 
longer  than  most  women  contrived.  .  . 

That  was  all  his  knowledge  of  a  common  life,  and  even 
while  it  was  coming  to  him  he  knew  that  the  life  was  ab- 
normal, that  it  was  based  on  nothing  but  passion  and  that, 
within  limits,  he  could  end  it  when  he  chose.  Passion  was 
but  one  of  a  hundred  things  in  marriage;  and,  when  sym- 
pathy waned  and  common  interests  died,  when  their  life 
ceased  to  be  a  honeymoon  in  paradise  and  became  a  habit 
in  England,  when  the  monotony  of  the  habit  was  appre- 
ciated in  its  full  horror,  then  he  could  not  end  it  at  will. 
Each  of  them  could  look  forward  to  a  further  fifty  years 
of  life — and  he  had  been  rude  to  her  that  afternoon,  not 
for  the  first  time,  because  she  agreed  with  him  too  readily 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       391 

— no,  this  time  she  had  disagreed  too  hastily — it  was 
really  rather  a  wolf  and  lamb  relationship.  He  was  fond 
of  her,  he  hated  finding  fault  with  her  or  seeing  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  droop,  but  his  nerves  were  restless  and  dis- 
ordered, everything  she  did  seemed  to  irritate  him,  and 
he  spoke  to  her,  the  woman  he  was  going  to  marry,  in  a  tone 
that  he  would  never  dare  adopt  with,  say,  Yolande.  She 
would  never  stand  it,  for  one  thing;  and  quite  right,  too. 
Apparently  Idina  would. 

Deryk  jumped  up  and  walked  to  the  railings  on  the  north 
side,  looking  down  almost  as  if  he  expected  to  see  a  search 
party  coming  to  meet  him. 

"I  can't!  My  God,  I  simply  can't!"  he  cried,  as  though 
someone  were  pleading. 

"It  will  break  her  heart.  Well,  it  would  kill  us  both  if 
we  married.  I  don't  love  her!  That's  the  long  and  short 
of  it." 

He  flung  away  and  sat  down  again  on  his  seat  of  planks, 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands  and  squeezing  his  palms 
against  his  temples. 

"I  simply  can't,"  he  groaned. 


The  moment  that  he  had  put  his  confession  into  words 
Deryk  felt  that  he  had  known  it  all  along,  that,  when  he 
talked  of  the  old  days  and  such  love  as  no  other  man  had 
felt  for  a  woman,  he  really  meant  that  he  had  not  then 
taken  the  trouble  to  analyse  as  he  was  now  doing ;  he  could 
never  have  married  her,  he  could  not  even  live  with  her  as 
he  had  lived  with  Lucile  Welman,  had  either  of  them 
wanted  to.  Yet  how  perfect  a  wife  she  must  have  been 
to  Sidney  Dawson,  hideous  though  the  human  sacrifice  had 
seemed ;  temperamentally  the  two  had  far  more  in  common. 
If  he  went  ahead  with  the  present  marriage.  .  . 

Deryk  found  himself  thinking  aloud  and  now  gravely 
shaking  his  head.  Once  his  eyes  were  open,  he  could  never 
close  them  again ;  the  engagement  had  to  be  broken,  and  it 


392  MIDAS  AND  SON 

was  only  a  question  how  he  could  mercifully  break  it ;  and 
when ;  and  with  what  introduction.  .  .  Obviously  he  could 
do  nothing  at  present ;  there  could  be  no  crueller  choice  of 
time  than  when  she  had  been  inspecting  and  admiring  the 
house  in  which  they  were  to  live.  On  the  other  hand,  every 
day  strengthened  her  in  the  presumption  that  he  was  in 
love  with  her — made  harder  the  breach,  when  it  came ;  and 
it  was  tantamount  to  saying  that  the  better  he  knew  her  the 
more  impossible  she  seemed.  He  had  had  his  opportunity 
freely  offered  a  week  or  two  ago :  if  he  ever  felt  that  he 
had  made  a  mistake,  he  was  to  say  so.  Well,  he  had  thrown 
away  the  chance  derisively,  with  vows  and  protestations. 
What  new  reason  could  he  now  put  before  her? 

And  what  could  he  tell  Yolande,  Hats,  Raymond,  the 
three  or  four  thousand  people  who  had  so  eagerly  con- 
gratulated him  ?  There  would  be  the  usual  announcement 
that  the  marriage  would  not  take  place;  and  then — and 
then !  Idina,  buried  and  forgotten  as  Lady  Lancing,  would 
never  be  so  well-known,  so  notorious — pointed  at,  whispered 
about — as  the  Mrs.  Dawson  who  had  jilted  Deryk  Lancing 
— or  been  jilted  by  him — no  one  seemed  to  know  the  rights 
of  the  thing.  ...  If  he  ever  did  anything,  if  it  were  ever 
worth  anyone's  while  to  write  a  book  about  him,  Idina 
would  go  down  to  posterity  as  the  woman  who  pre-eminently 
had  not  married  him ! 

A  pleasant  prospect  when  the  light  of  publicity  first  broke 
upon  her !  But  that  was  not  the  worst ;  the  really  pleasant 
prospect  was  the  meeting  when  he  had  to  say,  "I  cannot 
stand  the  idea  of  marrj-ing  you."  The  brutality  continued 
naked,  however  many  clothes  you  wrapped  round  it.  It 
would  kill  her — if  people  ever  were  killed  by  this  sort  of 
thing.  Or  rather,  she  would  catch  a  chill,  and  the  doctor 
would  say,  as  that  other  doctor  had  said  of  her  father,  that 
she  had  no  stamina,  no  resistance,  made  no  effort  to  keep 
alive.    And  her  murder  would  lie  across  his  soul.  .  . 

He  began  to  pace  slowly  backwards  and  forwards,  look- 
ing obliquely  down  on  the  foreshortened  traffic  of  Pall  Mall. 
Once  again  he  was  astonished  at  the  number  of  soldiers 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       393 

hurrying  to  and  fro  in  the  early  turmoil  of  mobilisation; 
if  only  Sir  Aylmer  had  put  him  into  a  crack  regiment  to 
keep  him  out  of  mischief  for  a  few  years.  .  .  !  Good 
Heavens!  He  might  have  been  in  Belgium  before  the 
week  was  out,  with  every  likelihood  of  getting  killed.  And 
there  was  all  the  difference  in  the  world  between  breaking 
an  engagement  and  having  it  broken  by  the  hand  of  God. 
In  the  social  limelight  Idina  would  then  be  the  beautiful 
young  widow  with  the  tragic  history — "engaged  to  Sir 
Deryk  Lancing,  the  richest  bachelor  of  his  time;  then  he 
got  killed  in  the  war  of  1914.  Twice  a  widow,  so  to  say, 
before  she  was  five  and  twenty — very  sad."  But  she  would 
not  die  of  the  shock ;  her  stamina,  her  resistance,  her  will 
to  live  would  bear  her  triumphantly  through  the  perils  of 
that  imagined  chill ;  probably  she  would  to  some  extent  keep 
herself  alive  with  the  glorious  boast  that  Deryk  Lancing  had 
loved  her,  that  he  might  be  called  dead,  but  she  knew  that 
in  reality  he  was  watching  and  waiting — 

"I  had  my  task  to  finish, 

"And  he  had  gone  home  to  rest; 

"To  rest  in  the  far  bright  heaven.  .  .  ." 

(He  could  imagine  Idina  finding  grandeur  in  the  songs  of 
Jacques  Blumenthal  and  feeling  herself  spiritually  uplifted 
by  them.)  She  would  not  let  herself  die,  because  she  had 
his  memory  to  tend.  .  .  Heavens !  what  make-believe  these 
good  women  perpetrated  when  they  were  afraid  to  face 
reality;  they  would  invent  a  thousand  reasons,  elaborate 
a  hundred  stories  to  shirk  disagreeable  truth ;  he  would  have 
his  work  cut  out  for  him  to  make  Idina  believe  that  he  did 
not  care  for  her  enough  to  marry  her.  .  . 

As  he  said  the  words  to  himself  he  was  conscious  that 
his  thoughts  were  moving  in  an  ever  diminishing  circle ;  he 
was  not  yet  prepared  to  look  at  the  centre  where  the  jour- 
ney would  end ;  he  had  timidly  stepped  aside  on  to  an  outer 
ring  when  he  talked  of  breaking  any  kind  of  news  to  Idina ; 
that  was  old,  rejected;  he  could  never  tell  her  anything; 


394  MIDAS  AND  SON 

if  the  engagement  were  broken,  it  would  be  by  the  hand 
of  God.  .  . 

Of  course,  there  was  never  any  objection  to  guiding  the 
hand  of  God.  He  could  not  go  out  and  get  killed  in  this 
war,  because  there  was  not  time  (and  he  was  not  at  all 
anxious  to  be  killed)  ;  he  could  not  get  himself  certified  unfit 
to  marry,  because  everybody  knew  that  he  had  not  had  six 
months*  illness  in  his  life.  There  was  always  the  possibility 
of  disappearing.  He  could  open  an  account  under  an  as- 
sumed name  with  some  remote  bank,  pay  in  a  large  sum 
of  money — Eah!  He  could  not  trouble  even  to  work  out 
the  first  preliminaries.  When  he  disappeared,  any  bank 
clerk  who  had  read  Jekyll  and  Hyde  (or  had  a  spark  of 
native  imagination)  would  track  him  by  means  of  the 
second  account,  the  tell-tale  large  transfer.  And,  if  he 
disappeared  with  a  five  pound  note  in  his  pocket,  prepared 
to  earn  his  own  living,  who  would  let  him  disappear  ?  Scot- 
land Yard,  to  begin  with,  would  never  rest  till  he  was 
found ;  the  four  thousand  people  who  knew  him  well  enough 
to  congratulate  him  on  his  engagement,  the  four  hundred 
thousand  who,  to  judge  by  the  press  cuttings,  knew  his  fea- 
tures and  were  interested  in  his  doings,  all  of  these  would 
join  hands  in  a  double  line,  like  one  of  the  du  Maurier 
nightmares  in  Punch,  to  make  him  run  the  gauntlet  wher- 
ever he  went.  He  had  travelled  rather  like  a  Crown  Prince, 
he  was  known  everywhere.  If  he  tried  to  slip  away  into  the 
desert,  somebody  would  recognise  him  at  Gib.  or  Alexandria 
— and  the  gang  that  travelled  by  liner  was  much  the  same 
in  personnel.  .  .  .  He  was  too  well-known  to  disappear  by 
growing  a  beard  and  shifting  his  domicile  twenty  miles. 
That  was  one  of  Wells'  many  clevernesses  in  "The  History 
of  Mr.  Polly" ;  a  man  in  Mr.  Polly's  position  could  disap- 
pear; when  solvent,  his  whole  estate  was  but  a  few  hun- 
dreds, he  was  unknown,  no  one  was  interested  in  him,  even 
his  wife  was  tied  by  the  ankle  to  the  joint  haberdashery 
business  so  that  she  could  not  follow  him  through  the 
nearest  wood,  over  the  first  dividing  range. 

Deryk  had  to  remind  himself  that  he  was  keeping  his 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       395 

eyes  averted  from  that  centre  to  which  his  circling  thoughts 
were  winding.  He  was  shirking  something;  he  was  not 
staying  out  there  to  brood  over  the  technical  clevernesses 
of  Mr.  Wells.  If  you  put  him  in  a  corner  and  demanded 
to  know  why  he  was  there  at  all?  Well,  he  was  gradually 
discarding  impossibilities,  and  each  discard  brought  him 
on  to  an  inner  ring,  brought  him  a  stage  nearer  the  mid- 
dle. He  could  not  marry  Idina ;  he  could  not  tell  her  that 
he  would  not  marry  her;  he  could  not  run  away  and  lie  in 
hiding;  he  could  only — Deryk  was  surprised  to  find  his 
tongue  moistening  two  rather  dry  lips — he  could  do 
deuced  little,  but  the  hand  of  God  might  break  the  engage- 
ment, and  he  might  put  his  fingers  on  God's  wrist,  so  to  say. 

It  was  a  great  thing  to  have  this  strong,  detached,  Lan- 
cing brain!  With  everything  pointing  to  suicide  (he  could 
use  the  word  now;  rather  enjoyed  it,  in  fact),  he  could 
think  as  collectively  and  in  as  orderly  and  logical  a  way 
as  ever  before.  Other  people  would  no  doubt  be  bowled 
over  by  the  discovery  of  what  they  were  obscurely  con- 
templating; all  that  happened  with  him  was  that  his  brain 
worked,  if  anything,  a  trifle  faster,  a  trifle  better,  a  trifle 
more  cogently  and  coherently.  The  first  thing  to  consider 
was  how  much  he  wanted  to  live ;  then  how  he  could  take 
his  own  life  and  make  the  world  believe  a  verdict  of  death 
by  natural  causes,  when  the  same  thing  was  being  tried  per- 
haps once  a  week  and  never  succeeding. 

He  did  not  want  to  die  at  all.  Whenever  he  thought  of 
it,  he  was  filled  with  exuberant  self-pity — like  Villon  in  "A 
Lodging  for  the  Night" — (Why  the  devil  did  he  keep 
dragging  in  these  facile  literary  allusions?)  He  was  so 
young,  he  had  enjoyed  life  so  much,  he  still  appreciated  the 
esoteric  beauties  of  music,  of  colour  and  form  so  much 
more  fully  than  anyone  he  knew.  Even  if  he  never  created 
anything,  even  if  he  confessed  to  failure  and  left  his  father's 
wealth  unbroken  and  triumphant,  he  was  a  rare  critic 
wasted!  Of  course  from  one  point  of  view  there  was 
nothing  to  be  said  for  dying  old  rather  than  young ;  in  either 
event  you  stopped   short  just  at  the  moment  when  you 


396  MIDAS  AND  SON 

wanted  to  see  what  your  successors  vv^ould  do;  it  was  like 
leaving  a  room  and  wishing  yourself  back  there  to  hear 
what  people  were  saying  about  you.  He  would  like  to  see 
what  kind  of  show  old  Raymond  would  put  up.  At  least — 
he  was  really  not  sure  whether  Raymond  was  still  his  heir. 
He  had  been,  in  the  will  drawn  up  before  the  Hellenopolis 
expedition — (God!  how  long  ago  that  was!  And  what  un- 
real nonsense  it  seemed  now,  when  nations  were  going  to 
war  and  he  was  gambling  with  his  own  life!)  ;  then,  when 
the  engagement  took  place,  Hats  was  instructed  to  draw  a 
fresh  will,  though  of  course  that  would  not  be  signed  until 
after  marriage ;  presumably,  therefore,  Raymond's  title  re- 
mained. Where  had  he  got  to?  Oh,  yes,  it  would  be  fun 
to  see  what  Raymond  would  do  with  the  money.  .  .  Of 
course,  if  the  old  will  had  been  cancelled,  every  penny  would 
go  to  the  Crov/n.  It  was  a  wonderful  thought,  that!  All 
that  his  father  had  slaved  to  accumulate,  all  that  he  had 
inherited,  their  pictures  and  furniture,  the  books  and  col- 
lections, their  houses,  the  very  roof  on  which  he  was  pacing 
— all  would  go  with  its  glamour  and  temptation,  like  the 
Rajah's  diamond  Avhen  it  left  Prince  Florizel's  hand  and 
described  an  arc  of  dazzling  light  before  dropping  to  the 
unrevealing  mud  of  the  Seine.  (It  was  no  good :  if  he  were 
fated  even  to  think  like  one  of  the  rather  precious  middle 
articles  that  he  used  to  write  for  George  Oakleigh  at  the 
very  beginning,  well,  it  could  not  be  helped.  By  the  way, 
poor  old  George  would  be  rather  upset !  Still — )  It  would 
disappear,  tliis  monstrous  engine  of  wealth,  as  silently  as  it 
had  come  into  existence ;  it  would  become  a  memory,  a  leg- 
end, jEinally  it  would  be  utterly  forgotten:  you  would  have 
to  refer  to  the  Sussex  guide  books  to  find  how,  when  and 
why  the  nation  became  possessed  of  Ripley  Court.  For  a 
moment  one  small  tremor  had  been  felt  in  a  corner  of  the 
world;  the  tempo  had  been  accelerated  half  a  bar,  but  with 
the  restoration  of  the  money  to  the  vast,  indeterminate 
"public"  from  which  it  had  come,  the  tremor  would  cease, 
the  time  would  become  regular  again.  All  that  the  Lan- 
cings  had  been  or  done  would  be  wiped  away ;  wiped  away. 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       397 

too,  their  joint  effort  to  scratch  their  individual  personaHties 
on  the  slate  that  recorded  nothing  but  names. 

"I  don't  wonder!"  Deryk  whispered. 

He  was  now  remembering  Sir  Aylmer's  last  counsels,  his 
pleading  that,  whatever  else  happened,  the  house  should  be 
kept  as  the  symbol  of  continuity,  the  shell  of  the  family, 
the  something  that  survived  when  everything  else  went. 
Poor  old  man !  He  too  had  been  through  moments  like  this, 
then.  He  had  seen  what  an  amazing  big  figure  he  cut  in — 
say — "Who's  Who?",  with  his  title  and  his  dignities,  his 
great  house,  his  "owns  about  19,000  acres".  .  .  .  And,  by 
Jove,  what  -^^  poor  thing  you  looked  when  you  were  face 
to  face  with  death  (who  didn't  care  whether  you  had  a 
title  or  not)  .  .  .  What  would  the  old  man  think — what  was 
he  thinking,  if  he  could  look  down  or  up  or  round  the 
comer  or  from  wherever  it  was  that  the  souls  of  the  dead 
went — what  would  he  think  of  his  son's  throwing  up  the 
sponge  and  bringing  his  family  to  an  end?  (It  was  a  won- 
derful thing  to  be  able  to  end  a  family  that  had  continued 
in  a  traceable,  recognisable  form  for  five  hundred  years.) 
Or  would  he  not  care  ?  If  there  were  any  God,  if  he  had 
any  irony  in  him  and  if  he  had  to  construct  some  kind  of 
Hell  (the  first  ethical  duty  of  any  creative  god  was  to  con- 
struct a  place  of  torment  for  his  creatures),  there  was  no 
subtler  punishment  than  in  condemning  a  man  to  watch 
his  successors  at  work  on  the  fabric  which  he  had 
founded.  .  .  . 

A  breath  of  wind  from  the  south-west  brought  him  the 
subdued  note  of  Big  Ben.  He  counted  idly  and  was  aghast 
to  find  that  it  was  seven  o'clock.  What  those  others  must 
think  of  him !  He  looked  down  into  Pall  Mall  and  instantly 
threw  himself  prone  on  the  dusty  leaden  roof,  dragging 
himself  a  moment  later  with  sinuous  movements,  like  a 
snake  on  sand,  to  the  edge  of  the  parapet.  Far  below, 
sauntering  easily  on  the  shady  side  of  St.  James'  Square 
and  descending  into  Pall  Mall,  he  saw  Felix,  Yolande  and 
Idina.  They  were  getting  uneasy,  they  were  wondering 
what  had  happened  to  him  when  he  was  alone  in  the  great. 


398  MIDAS  AND  SON 

silent  house ;  was  he  faint,  giddy,  affected  by  the  sun  ?  He 
could  not  tell  them  that  he  had  spent  more  than  two  hours 
drawing  one  sketch,  smoking  three  cigarettes  and,  well, 
thinking.  He  must  leave  proof  of  a  little  more  industry 
than  that.  .  .  Down  in  the  street  the  three  were  standing 
on  the  opposite  kerb,  waiting  for  a  negotiable  gap  in  the 
long  chain  of  taxis,  Felix  talking  and  stammering  hard,  the 
others  occasionally  nodding.  Then  they  crossed  and  came 
too  much  under  him  to  be  seen  any  longer.  He  jumped  up 
and  was  dusting  his  clothes,  when  the  tap  of  a  cane  on  his 
front  door  rang  clear  and  echoing  through  the  empty  hall ; 
Deryk  tiptoed  guiltily  to  the  open  skylight  and  knelt  down, 
leaning  on  his  hands  and  peering  into  the  shadows.  The 
tapping  was  repeated;  then  someone  began  to  whistle  (it 
was  some  kind  of  bugle  call — "Officers'  wives  has  pud- 
dings and  pies ;  soldiers'  wives  has  skilly" — some  nonsense 
of  that  kind).  Well,  they  could  not  break  down  that  door, 
and  no  one  seemed  inclined  to  open  it  for  them.  The  whist- 
ling, like  the  tapping,  came  to  an  end,  and,  as  Deryk  once 
more  threw  himself  on  his  face  and  crawled  to  the  parapet, 
he  was  in  time  to  see  their  three  backs  (puzzled  and  hesitat- 
ing, or  so  he  fancied)  paraded  on  the  kerb,  diving  between 
two  waves  of  traffic,  reaching  the  far  side  and  turning  for  a 
last  enquiring  look  at  the  uncommunicative  house. 

Then  they  disappeared,  and  his  world  was  his  own  until 
these  servants  came  to  take  possession.  He  had  said  "Tues- 
day night,"  naming  the  hour,  and  from  what  he  knew  of  the 
English  domestic  servant,  they  would  come  at  about  mid- 
night. Or  else  within  the  next  five  minutes;  you  never 
knew  where  to  have  these  people.  If  they  came  soon,  there 
would  be  someone  to  open  the  door  when  the  next  search 
party  arrived;  before  then  he  must  provide  himself  with 
an  excuse. 

Returning  to  his  old  seat  on  the  piled  up  planks,  he  be- 
gan to  make  and  discard  half  a  dozen  hasty  sketches  of  his 
roof  garden,  crumpling  the  sheets  between  his  fingers  and 
tossing  them  hastily  in  a  semi-circle  round  him.  Then  he 
returned  the  book  to  his  pocket,  pulled  off  his  coat  and 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       399 

began  to  drag  the  planks  back  to  their  old  position  over 
the  skylight.  He  worked  with  the  roughness  of  impatience, 
and  the  first  plank  slid  far  beyond  the  orifice  and  balanced 
on  the  opposite  edge,  dipping  and  rising  like  a  see-saw. 
"Couldn't  do  that  again,  if  I  tried,"  Der}^k  murmured,  as 
he  walked  round  and  steadied  it  in  place.  "Damnable  noise 
it  would  have  made  1"  He  was  grown  so  used  to  the  silence 
and  solitude  of  the  last  two  hours  that  he  shivered  at  the 
idea  of  one  moment's  tense  expectancy,  a  crash  like  the  jar 
of  two  warring  planets,  the  echo,  echo,  echo,  fading  grad- 
ually beyond  his  ears'  power  to  recapture  it.  Everyone  in 
the  street — everyone  in  London — would  jump  out  of  his 
skin,  pull  up  short,  help  to  swell  a  crowd,  ask  silly  ques- 
tions. .  . 

The  second  and  third  planks  dropped  into  position ;  he 
threaded  the  rope  over  and  under  them,  drew  it  taut  and 
began  to  drag  up  the  tarpaulin.  In  another  five  minutes  his 
work  would  be  over.  Three  minutes  to  wash  his  hands, 
brush  his  clothes.  Then  he  could  vamp  up  an  apology  and 
hurry  back  to  his  guests. 

Deryk  had  an  indefinite  feeling  that  he  was  letting  slip  a 
great  opportunity. 


Obedient  to  instructions  Idina  had  escorted  the  Manistys 
to  Deryk's  rooms  and  ordered  tea.  All  three  knew  him  too 
well  to  delay  their  own  movements  a  single  instant  on  his 
account;  they  sat  down  without  noticing  the  time,  began 
their  tea,  finished  it,  smoked  one  or  two  cigarettes  and  dis- 
covered to  their  common  amazement  that  it  was  six  o'clock 
and  that  Deryk  must  have  been  away  rather  more  than  an 
hour.  With  opportunity  for  reflection  and  candour  all 
would  have  confessed  to  a  sense  of  relief  in  escaping  from 
him  while  his  present  mood  was  on. 

"I  can't  think  what  can  have  happened  to  him!"  Idina 
exclaimed. 

Yolande  noticed  that  her  cheeks  were  mother-of-pearl  in 


400  MIDAS  AND  SON 

colour  and  that  her  hands  played  restlessly  with  a  platinum 
watch  chain  round  her  neck. 

"I  can  think  of  so  many  things  that  it's  difficult  to 
choose,"  she  answered  easily.  "You're  going  to  marry  him, 
Dina,  but  I'm  sure  I  know  him  better  than  you  do.  If  you 
went  back  now,  you'd  probably  find  him  in  the  cellars, 
projecting  a  swimming  bath  and  not  remembering  a  single 
word  of  tea  or  us  or  anything ;  or  it's  quite  likely  that  he's 
recollected  a  piece  of  tapestry  at  Ripley  Court  and  is  gaily 
motoring  down  to  see  if  it  will  do  for  the  hall.  That's  the 
sort  of  thing  that  used  to  make  poor  Sir  Aylmer  so  angry ; 
Deryk,  of  course,  never  noticed  anything  until  his  father 
used  to  say,  'Dinner  will  be  at  8.30,  and  I  shall  send  Benson 
to  see  that  you  are  dressed  by  8.15.'  And  then,  of  course, 
there  was  a  row,  and  Deryk  protested  that  he  was  being 
treated  like  a  child.  So  he  was,  poor  lamb,  but  then  he  is 
a  child." 

Idina  did  not  seem  to  be  listening,  but  she  noticed  the 
silence  after  the  last  words  and  murmured,  half  to  herself, 

"I  wish  he'd  come !" 

"L-look  here,  Mrs.  Dawson,"  Felix  began,  struggling  to 
his  feet  from  a  very  low  armchair.  Yolande  shook  her 
head  and  pushed  him  back  again. 

"Don't  fuss,  good  people,"  she  begged.  "If  he's  there,  he 
certainly  won't  come  until  h£^s  ready ;  if  he's  not  there,  we 
shan't  find  him.  Quite  seriously,  Dina,  I  got  an  idea  at 
lunch  that  Deryk  was  a  bit  overwrought — doing  too  much, 
you  know ;  he  was  like  this  before  his  illness  in  the  autumn. 
If  you  want  my  advice,  you'll  simply  ignore  him;  don't  let 
him  think  that  you're  fretting  or  worrying,  keep  yourself 
in  the  background — oh,  I  know  you  do !  I  was  only  warn- 
ing you  that  everybody  and  everything  are  rather  apt  to  get 
on  his  nerves  this  afternoon." 

Idina's  slow  nod  of  acquiescence  closed  the  discussion, 
and  all  three  tried  to  remember  what  had  been  engaging 
their  attention  when  they  unexpectedly  noticed  the  time. 
The  conversation  smouldered,  however,  and  would  not 
break  into  flame.     Soon  after  half  past  six,  though  Idina 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       401 

would  have  sat  on  in  endless,  obedient  devotion,  Yolande 
had  to  shew  her  some  mercy.  Und6r  cover  of  wanting- 
to  take  Felix  home,  she  suggested  that  they  should  all  go 
by  way  of  Pall  Mall  and  tap  at  the  door  on  the  off  chance 
that  Deryk  was  still  there. 

"Probably  he's  gone  off  to  find  his  architect,"  she  sug- 
gested, as  they  set  out ;  "or  else  he's  just  heard " 

She  went  on  accumulating  explanations  until  Felix  broke 
in  unexpectedly  with  an  account  of  a  winter  garden  which 
he  had  once  seen  on  the  roof  of  a  house  in  New  York. 

"C-couldn't  place  it  before,"  he  said  in  explanation  of 
his  long  silence.  "But  th-that's  what  his  description  c-called 
to  my  mind ;  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  f-find  he'd  been  re- 
remembering  that  more  or  less  unconsciously.  Are  you 
ready?     We  c-can  get  across  now." 

He  gave  an  arm  to  either  and  crossed  to  Deryk's  front 
door.  It  was  locked  and  unyielding,  the  bell  brought  no  one 
to  them,  and,  when  he  tapped  the  panels  with  the  head  of 
his  cane,  tliey  seemed  too  massive  to  admit  of  the  sound's 
being  allowed  to  penetrate.  It  was  in  the  last  resort  that  he 
put  his  lips  to  the  keyhole  and  whistled  a  jigging  bugle 
call. 

"There's  no  one  there,"  he  pronounced  at  length,  shaking 
his  head.     "Wh-what  now,  Yolande?" 

Out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  glanced  at  Idina. 

"He's  forgotten  all  about  us,"  she  decided.  "Well,  we 
ought  to  be  getting  home.  Dina,  if  you're  staying  at  the 
Hans  Crescent,  we'll  drop  you  on  the  way.  Or,  if  you'll 
accept  Bank  Holiday  fare — literally  it's  cold  beef  and  a 
fruit  tart — will  you  come  and  keep  us  company  ?" 

Idina  roused  herself  from  her  attitude  of  dumb  expecta- 
tion and  turned  her  eyes  slowly  away  from  the  door. 

"It's  awfully  kind  of  you,"  she  said,  "but  I  think  I'll  go 
back  to  Deryk's  rooms  for  a  few  minutes.  It's  so  odd,  you 
know " 

"My  dear,  he'll  all  right,"  Yolande  interrupted.  "If  you 
knew  him  a  tithe  as  well  as  I  do " 

"But  he  said  he  was  coming  at  once !    He  was  just  finish- 


402  MIDAS  AND  SON 

ing  a  little  sketch;  then  he  was  going  to  put  those  boards 
back ;  that  was  all,  /  saw  that  he  wasn't  well  at  lunch.  .  .  . 
If  he's  been  taken  ill !" 

Yolande  slipped  her  arm  through  Idina's  and  led  the 
way  back  through  St.  James'  Square. 

"We'll  come  with  you,"  she  said,  with  a  quick  glance  at 
her  husband.  "Then — then  we  can  all  go  home  together. 
My  dear,  I  keep  telling  you  Deryk's  all  right,  only  I  think 
he's  been  overtaxing  his  nerves.  There's  nothing  wrong 
with  his  health,  but  he  was  a  little — what  shall  I  say? — 
abstracted.  It's  curious,  you  know ;"  she  went  on  with  an 
attempt  to  be  detached  and  philosophical;  "for  the  last 
three  days  I've  done  nothing  but  talk  about  war  or  listen 
to  other  people  talking  about  it.  Since  we  started  lunch, 
we've  hardly  mentioned  it — except  for  that  moment  with 
Mr.  Oakleigh.  Yet  I  suppose  it's  bound  to  come;  and, 
when  it  comes,  I  feel  in  my  bones  that  it  will  end  for  all 
time  the  sort  of  life  we've  all  been  leading.  I  don't  know 
what  will  come,  but  I  know  it  will  be  something  quite  dif- 
ferent; and  I  couldn't  get  rid  of  a  feeling  of  incongruity 
the  whole  time  Deryk  was  shewing  us  over  the  house.  He 
seemed  to  have  ransacked  the  past  to  enrich  the  present — 
as  though  the  present  were  not  going  to  join  the  past  by 
midnight.  Deryk's  so  wonderfully  self-centred ;  I  don't  be- 
lieve he's  conscious  of  anything  going  on,  I  don't  believe  he 
knows  that  thousands  of  men  and  women  are  walking  up 
and  down,  clasping  and  unclasping  their  hands  and  praying 
to  something  they've  never  prayed  to  before,  to  help  them 
back  from  the  cliff-edge.  .  .  ."  She  paused  suddenly,  sur- 
prised at  her  own  intensity  of  feeling.  "Well,  here  we  are! 
I  suppose  we  may  as  well  go  in  and  wait.  I'm  sure  you 
want  to  smoke,  Felix." 

The  second  vigil  was  worse  than  the  first  in  that  it  was 
deliberate  and  that,  instead  of  waiting  a  moment  or  two 
for  a  man  who  was  late,  they  had  thrown  their  other  en- 
gagements to  the  winds  in  order  to  hold  together  until  a 
man  who  was  missing  had  been  found.  To  herself  Yo- 
lande persisted  that  all  was  well,  but  she  hardly  tried  any 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       403 

longer  to  convince  Idina.  It  was  so  absurd!  At  any 
moment  the  door  would  burst  open,  and  Deryk  would  cry 
out,  "I  say!  I'm  sorry!  I  entirely  forgot  all  about  you." 
He  was  probably  at  the  Club.  .  .  .  Certainly  he  had  be- 
haved like  this  a  dozen  times  to  her  in  the  course  of  their 
friendship,  and  she  was  afraid  that  this  would  be  his  stand- 
ard of  conduct  to  poor  Idina,  when  they  were  married.  In 
a  way,  it  was  just  as  well  that  she  was  getting  a  sample  of 
it  beforehand,  but  she  would  have  to  acquire  rather  more 
placidity  if  she  intended  to  survive  more  than  three  months 
of  married  life. 

"He's  probably  arranging  about  the  servants,"  Yolande 
suggested  after  a  silence.  It  was  certainly  inartistic,  per- 
haps it  was  rather  foolish  to  go  on  finding  new  reasons,  but 
Idina  was  staring  vacantly  out  of  the  window,  Felix  was 
softly  beating  the  side  of  his  leg  with  a  paper  knife,  and 
all  of  them  were  ill  at  ease  in  the  dingy,  worn  bachelor 
rooms.  No  one  commented  on  her  sally;  no  comment  was 
possible.    "He  said  something  about  servants,  didn't  he  ?" 

"They're  coming  in  to-day,"  said  Idina  with  an  effort. 
"But  what  time " 

She  stopped  with  eyes  suddenly  dilated  and  her  hand 
pressed  against  her  side  as  the  street  door  slammed  and,  a 
moment  later,  feet  were  heard  coming  up  the  stairs.  The 
slow  clamber  gave  way  to  a  rapid  reverberation  on  the 
thinly-carpeted  boards  of  the  corridor ;  the  handle  rattled, 
and  the  door  was  flung  open.  Idina,  Yolande  and  Felix 
were  straining  forward  like  the  leading  birds  in  a  flight,  as 
a  young  officer  in  uniform  clattered  into  the  room. 

"Lord !  I'm  so  sorry !"  he  exclaimed,  pulling  back  and 
addressing  himself  in  some  embarrassment  to  Felix.  "I — 
er — I  came  to  see  Lancing;  seems  to  be  a  goodish  party 
on. 

Yolande  started  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Why,  it's  Lord  Summertown !"  she  cried.  "I  didn't 
recognise  you  in  all  this  war-like  get-up." 

"Oh,  I'm  off  immediately.  I  looked  in  to  say  good-bye 
to  Lancing.    Will  one  of  you,  Manisty,  Mrs.  Dawson,  Mrs. 


404  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Manisty,  will  one  of  you  remember  to  give  the  old  man  my 
love  and  say  I  called  for  his  blessing?  Good-bye,  everyone! 
I'm  in  a  fairish  hurry.  If  I've  got  to  be  killed,  don't  let's 
be  too  quick  about  the  business,  say  I ;  but  my  old  colonel — 
you  can't  start  killing  his  junior  officers  soon  enough. 
Cheero !" 

He  clattered  out  of  the  room  with  even  more  speed, 
noise  and  imperturbability  than  he  had  shewn  on  entering. 
Idina  had  turned  her  face  to  the  window  once  more,  sick 
with  disappointment  and  doubt,  but  the  other  two  were 
exhilarated  by  the  moment's  diversion. 

"Lord  Summertown's  quite  hopeless,"  laughed  Yolande. 
"If  /  were  on  the  point  of  going  out  to  fight,  I  shouldn't  be 
as  cheery." 

"I  must  have  m-met  him  at  Ripley  Court,"  said  Felix 
reflectively.  "He  s-seemed  to  know  my  name.  I  say!" 
Once  again  the  clock  on  Deryk's  mantelpiece  had  caught 
his  eye.  "It's  half  past  seven,"  he  whispered  to  Yolande. 
"We  must  start  some  time." 

Yolande  nodded  and  walked  up  to  Idina. 

"It's  quite  clear  Deryk  won't  be  back  till  after  dinner," 
she  said.  "The  evenings  are  so  light  that  one  doesn't  notice 
how  late  it's  getting,  but  we  really  must  go  now,  Dina,  and 
we're  going  to  take  you  with  us." 

There  was  an  almost  imperceptible  struggle  and  a  mo- 
mentary stiffening  of  Idina's  muscles ;  then  she  allowed 
herself  to  be  led  towards  the  door. 

"I'm  not  frightened,  Yolande,"  she  protested.  "What 
worries  me  a  little  bit  is  the  thought  that  he  may  have  been 
taken  faint  with  no  one  at  hand  to  help  him." 

"He  couldn't  be  fainting  all  this  time,"  Yolande  assured 
her.  "No,  he's  forgotten  us  and  remembered  something 
else,  as  he  always  does.  One  thing  we  might  do  is  to  tele- 
phone and  see  if  the  servants  are  there;  then  we  can  leave 
a  message  to  say  that  we've  taken  you  home  with  us." 

After  a  short  search  Felix  found  the  telephone  number 
on  the  flyleaf  of  a  shorthand  note-book. 

"I'd  better  do  this,"  said  Yolande,  taking  the  instrument 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       405 

into  her  own  hands.  "Regent  484726 — yes,  please."  After 
a  short  pause  her  face  became  animated  with  expectancy. 
"Is  that  Regent  484726?  Is  Sir  Deryk  Lancing  at  liome? — 
Sir  Deryk  Lancing.  Isn't  that  his  house?  Oh,  I'm  sorry! 
Ring  off,  please."  She  depressed  the  receiver-clip  for  a 
moment  and  turned  to  her  companions.  "The  hall  porter 
at  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Club,  mildly  surprised  but 
very  paternal — sort  of  'What-can-you-expect-of-a-woman? 
She-wow/flf-get-a-wrong-number.'  Hello !  You  gave  me  a 
wrong  number.  R-r-regent  484726 — Please —  Not  yet 
—  Not  yet.  Give  another  ring,  will  you? —  Not  yet. 
Oh,  it  doesn't  matter;  I  don't  suppose  there's  anyone  at 
home." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"No  reply  of  any  kind.  There's  no  one  there.  Come 
home  to  dinner,  friends." 

As  a  final  concession  to  Idina,  they  went  once  more  into 
Pall  Mall  and  once  more  inspected  the  forbidding  front 
door.  In  the  gathering  dusk  the  house  looked  larger  and 
more  deserted  than  ever,  and  its  sense  of  inviolability  was 
enhanced  by  the  presence  of  a  large  policeman  in  the  door- 
way. Yolande  at  once  asked  whether  a  gentleman  had  been 
seen  coming  out  or  going  into  the  house.  The  constable 
shook  his  head.  He  had  been  there  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour;  the  house,  of  course,  was  unoccupied  at  present,  but 
it  was  full  of  furniture,  and  he  fancied  that  he  had  heard 
a  noise,  as  though  some  one  had  knocked  over  a  table.  He 
had  therefore  taken  up  his  position  at  a  point  where  he 
could  command  both  front  and  side  doors. 

"And  no  one  has  come  out?"    Idina  asked  him  again. 

"Not  while  I've  been  here.  Miss." 

Idina  felt  that  any  further  delay,  any  more  outward  ex- 
pression of  uneasiness  would  make  an  unjustifiable  demand 
of  her  companions'  patience.  Turning  to  Yolande  with  a 
forced  smile,  she  nodded  her  willingness  to  start. 

"But  why  won't  you  and  your  husband  dine  with  me?" 
she  asked,  as  Felix  signalled  to  a  taxi.  "We're  too  late  to 
dress,  but  that  won't  matter  in  August,  on  the  eve  of  war. 


4o6  MIDAS  AND  SON 

I'm  housekeeper  enough  to  know  that  it  isn't  fair  to  bring 
in  extra  people  on  the  last  of  three  Bank  Holidays  run- 
ning. Do  come !  Then  we'll  ring  Deryk  up  later  on  and 
find  where  he  really  did  get  to." 

They  set  out  for  Idina's  hotel  without  further  delay. 
There,  as  everywhere  in  London  that  night,  they  found  an 
indefinable  air  of  arrested  progress ;  everyone  seemed  to 
have  been  kept  in  town  unexpectedly  or  summoned  back  at 
short  notice.  From  the  tables  round  them  rose  a  babel  of 
amateur  strategy  and  disjointed  history — "Take  Bis- 
marck. .  .  .  Take  what  happened  over  Schleswig-Hol- 
stein.  .  .  .  The  enveloping  tactics  of  Sedan.  .  .  .  The 
Germans  are  sure  to  have  some  surprise  up  their  sleeves. 
They  did  in  '66  and  again  in  '70 — breach-loading  versus 
muzzle-loading,  machine  guns  as  against  rifles,  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  But  we  may  have  some  surprises  too;  they  may 
find  they've  bitten  off  more  than  they  can  chew,  in  the  old 
phrase.  I  was  talking  to  a  man  in  the  War  Office  only 
last  week.  .  .  .  Our  army's  by  no  means  what  it  was 
before  we  had  our  lesson  in  South  Africa.  .  .  ." 

When  dinner  was  over  Idina  telephoned  to  Derj'k  at  his 
rooms  and  at  the  County  Club. 

"I  don't  feel  it's  any  use  ringing  up  the  house,"  she  said. 
"I  know  he  wasn't  going  to  sleep  there  to-night.  We'll 
wait  and  try  him  later  at  his  rooms.  I'm  afraid  you  must 
think  me  very  absurd  and  cowardly,"  she  apologised  with 
sudden  contrition.  'T  suppose  the  excitement  of  the  last 
few  days  has  been  rather  trying,  and  this  is  the  form  that 
it  takes  with  me.     Now  we  won't  talk  about  it  any  more." 

They  agreed  to  remain  together  until  the  moment  when 
the  time  limit  of  the  ultimatum  to  Germany  expired.  When 
they  found,  however,  that  this  involved  spending  another 
silent  hour  in  each  other's  company,  the  prospect  lost  much 
of  its  charm.  Yolande  with  more  fine  spontaneity  sug- 
gested their  walking  round  to  the  Russian  Embassy  to  see 
whether  any  demonstration  was  being  made ;  they  mingled 
with  a  grave,  almost  subdued  crowd  in  Chesham  Place 
and  then  walked  on  to  Albert  Gate.    A  few  knots  of  idlers 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       407 

were  clustered  outside  the  French  Embassy,  but  the  traffic 
of  Knightsbridge  did  not  admit  of  crowds'  collecting.  A 
few  minutes  before  eleven  they  returned  to  the  hotel  and 
stood  on  the  pavement  waiting  for  the  hour  to  strike. 

"It's  like  seeing  in  the  New  Year,"  murmured  Idina. 

"Or — seeing  out  the  old  one,"  Yolande  answered  slowly. 
"I  wish — oh !  I  do  wish  I  knew  what  was  going  to  hao- 
peii !" 

"I  think  I'll  just  have  one  more  try  to  catch  Deryk,"  said 
Idina.  as  she  turned  into  the  hotel.  "Don't  go  till  you  hear 
whether  I've  caught  him." 


As  the  tarpaulin  gently  subsided  and  flattened,  Deryk 
dusted  the  palms  of  his  hands,  one  against  the  other,  and 
walked  downstairs  Vv'ith  the  teeth  of  his  lower  jaw  so  drawn 
back  over  their  fellows  of  the  upper  that  an  expression  of 
truculent  defiance  was  unintentionally  produced.  Only 
when  he  reached  the  hall  and  began  to  stalk  melodramati- 
cally towards  the  front  door  did  he  discover  that  he  was 
in  shirt-sleeves. 

The  only  possible  thing  was  to  go  upstairs  and  fetch  his 
bloody  coat.  It  zvas  a  bloody  coat,  everything  was  bloody. 
Here  was  he,  ready  to  die  of  spontaneous  combustion  like 
that  fellow  in  Dickens — Tulkinghorn,  was  he  ?  In  the  book 
about  the  Circumlocution  Office  and  Jarndyce  versus  Jarn- 
dyce — Bleak  House,  of  course !  Charles  Dickens  at  his  best 
mentally,  but  at  a  low  third-best  physically — a  tired,  de- 
pressed Dickens.  But  all  this  was  a  generation  old,  and  he 
did  not  want  to  let  fall  literary-society  criticisms  of  great 
works.  Yet  literary  "shop"  kept  him  from  watching  the 
progress  of  his  own  symptoms.  And  these  absurd  ar- 
tificial discussions  kept  him  away  from  the  major  discus- 
sion about  that  bloody  coat.  The  word  was  not  polite; 
admitted.  But  at  times  it  was  the  only  word,  which  bore 
out  his  age-old  contention  that  opportunity  was  the  equiva- 
lent, no  more  and  no  less,  of  virtue.     Deryk  put  his  hands 


4o8  MIDAS  AND  SON 

into  his  pockets  and  began  to  walk  upstairs  again  in  search 
o£  the  coat.  As  once  before,  when  he  was  delirious  with 
influenza,  he  was  saying  he  knew  not  what  and  embarking 
on  endless  disputatious  controversies  which  he  was  mentally 
unequal  to  following.  What  was  the  absurd  phrase  he  had 
just  used — opportunity  the  equivalent  of  virtue?  It  seemed 
so  profound  when  he  used  it ;  now,  when  he  was  awake 
again,  he  could  see  the  meaningless  folly  of  it.  Really,  it 
was  rather  disconcerting  when  your  brain  took  forty  winks 
like  that.  .  .  . 

Once  back  on  the  roof  he  remembered  the  earlier  sense 
that  he  was  throwing  away  a  rare  opportunity.  Why?  It 
was  an  extraordinary  thing,  but  he  felt  no  fear.  Yet  why 
should  he  feel  fear  ?  Nor  irritation,  for  that  matter.  Now, 
downstairs  (when  he  had  that  ridiculous  altercation  about 
the  coat)  he  was  in  a  condition  of  what  he  always  described 
to  himself  as  "prickly  heat";  his  nerves  seemed  to  stretch, 
stretch,  stretch  and  finally  snap ;  then  he  was  like  a  man 
flayed  alive!  He  could  cry  out  if  anyone  spoke  to  him  or 
touched  him,  even  kindly ;  he  could  not  bear  himself,  he 
did  not  know  what  he  wanted,  but  he  had  at  such  times  to 
get  away  to  solitude  lest  he  did  irreparable  injury.  Al- 
ways in  that  mood  he  was  ready  to  be  rude,  satirical, 
wounding  (he  had  said  things  to  Lucile  Welman  which 
cut  her  like  a  lash  across  the  face)  ;  thank  God!  he  had 
managed  to  hang  up  the  receiver,  or  run  away  and  hide, 
when  he  had  been  with  Idina ;  she  only  knew  him  as  abrupt 
and  variable,  she  had  never  seen  him  savage. 

He  never  knew  what  brought  on  these  attacks.  That 
afternoon  (as  soon  as  his  god-forsaken  guests  had  left  him 
in  peace)  he  had  been  quite  tranquil  and  contented;  only 
when  he  considered  the  question  of  re-joining  them  did  the 
"prickly  heat"  assail  him,  and  then  he  had  stood  in  the  hall, 
tensely  but  vacantly  blaspheming — like  an  angry  child  yell- 
ing because  it  had  to  yell.  And  then  he  had  started  an  ab- 
surd discussion  with  himself  about  "Bleak  House"  .  .  . 
Prickly  heat :  spontaneous  combustion — He  was  by  no 
means  sure  that  it  was  Bleak  House.  .  .  . 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       409 

Deryk  became  more  interested  in  himself  than  ever  be- 
fore. When  he  succumbed  to  "prickly  heat,"  when  his  lips 
or  brain  began  babbling  irrelevancies,  the  plain  fact  of  the 
matter  was  that  he  was  not  in  full  control  of  himself.  He 
was — delirious,  to  use  a  non-committal  word ;  delirious  in 
the  daytime,  when  he  was  well,  sober,  awake.  For  any- 
thing that  he  said  or  did  at  such  a  time  he  was  not  respon- 
sible; and  these  periods  of  delirium  were  becoming  more 
frequent,  though  he  could  not  remember  when  they  started. 
.  .  .  Now,  had  he  inherited  this  from  his  father,  had  he 
originated  it  in  himself?  Was  "it"  really  anything  at 
all?  In  other  words,  was  there  a  strain  of  insanity 
or  was  he  only  once  more  in  a  state  of  nervous  collapse? 
His  father  had  never  shewn  anything  but  a  desolatingly 
sane  and  level  mind — with  the  exception  of  that  one  moment 
when  he  contemplated  suicide.  (You  could  not  call  that  an 
inherited  tendency  to  self-destruction.)  Well,  was  his 
blood  tainted?  Was  this  another  legacy?  It  was  perfectly 
possible :  nobody  ever  told  you  about  this  sort  of  thing.  .  .  . 

Or  had  he  brought  the  whole  thing  on  himself?  The 
last  eighteen  months  had  been  a  greater  strain  than  any- 
one could  bear;  for  the  first  six  he  had  worked  twelve 
and  eighteen  hours  a  day  for  seven  days  a  week,  he  had 
taken  to  brandy-drinking  in  the  early  morning  and  things 
of  that  kind;  then  came  the  smash  over  Dina's  marriage 
(probably  that  was  the  beginning:  he  met  Yolande  out  at 
a  dance  somewhere  and  was  extraordinarily  rude  to  her: 
"prickly  heat"  again.  Yes,  she  tried  to  be  sympathetic  and 
actually  touched  his  hand — then  he  could  have  killed  her, 
quite  calmly  and  deliberately).  Thereafter  came  the 
hideous  months  when  he  lived  like  a  brute  with  Lucile 
Welman,  trying  to  forget ;  then  his  father's  death,  his  own 
collapse,  the  Hellenopolis  diversion  (it  was  a  pity  that 
had  failed;  he  was  really  well,  really  sane  out  there)  ;  then 
this  house,  bought,  swept  and  garnished  like  the  transfor- 
mation scene  in  a  pantomime ;  then  Dina's  return.  .  ,  . 
What  human  nerves  the  world  over  would  stand  the  strain  ? 
He  was  worn  out,  worn  out !     And  some  imbecile  at  the 


4IO  MIDAS  AND  SON 

Club  had  told  him  that  he  seemed  run-down,  adding  jocosely 
that  he  would  be  all  right  when  he  had  a  wife  to  look  after 
him!  Good  God!  if  Dina  were  to  try  pillow-smoothing 
stunts  with  him!  .  .  . 

Poor  Dina!  Oh,  poor  child!  She  should  be  spared  all 
he  could  spare  her.  Now  he  remembered  that  bit  about 
feeling  no  fear.  He  had  decided  to  commit  suicide;  and 
he  was  not  afraid,  not  even  regretful;  that  old  self-pity 
business  was  a  fake ;  he  was  not  really  losing  anything,  he 
had  done  everything,  the  future  must  all  be  repetition.  No 
fear,  no  self-pity;  what  was  the  other  thing?  Oh,  resent- 
ment. He  was  so  sorry  that  he  could  not  get  all  this  down 
in  black  and  white,  because  no  intending  suicide  had  ever 
thought  so  comprehensively  nor  pondered  with  so  exquisite 
a  balance.  The  imbeciles  would  bring  in  a  verdict  of  sui- 
cide while  of  unsound  mind,  but  he  at  least  (who  was  the 
only  person  that  mattered)  knew  that  the  poise  of  his 
brain  was  perfect  and  that  he  was  reasoning  in  a  form  that 
psychologists  for  all  time  would  offer  the  wealth  of  the 
world  to  obtain.  He  was  the  only  sane  man  who  had  ever 
nerved  himself  to  the  point;  and  he  proved  his  sanity  by 
his  amazing  detachment,  his  incomparable  faculty  of  self- 
analysis.  He  had  got  to  "resentment" ;  did  he  blame  anyone 
in  particular?  That  is  to  say,  one  of  the  richest  men  in 
the  world,  with  every  social  advantage,  an  admirable  edu- 
cation, unusual  scholarship,  youth,  health,  and  every  other 
mundane  blessing  had  somehow  got  himself  into  a  position 
of  personal  entanglement  or  mental  incompatibility  of 
which  suicide  was  the  only  solvent :  on  the  assumption  that 
"being"  was  at  least  generally  pleasanter  than  "not-being," 
an  explanation  was  required,  perhaps  even  a  defence. 

In  an  enquiiy  of  this  kind,  the  nearer  home  you  started, 
the  quicker  the  success  of  your  quest.  It  was  not  his  fault; 
he  had  not  been  cheating  at  cards  or  otherwise  forfeiting 
his  personal  reputation.  He  had  not  come  to  grief  over 
money  (how  could  he  with  that  income?).  He  had  not 
poisoned  his  blood  nor  brought  a  woman  to  disgrace  or 
misery.     The  record  was  good ;  he  had  done  not  one  of  the 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       411 

things  that  impelled  most  men  to  suicide;  what  brought 
him  to  the  same  resolution  was  a  sense  that  he  had  out- 
grown his  liking  for  everything  and,  specifically,  that  he 
had  ceased  to  love  someone  whom  he  had  once  loved. 
What  was  the  reason  of  that?  Who  had  changed?  She 
was  as  he  had  always  known  her,  as  he  had  formerly  loved 
her,  only  modified  by  the  passage  of  a  very  few  years  and 
by  the  experience  of  a  few  months  which  had  left  her  per- 
manently subdued.  He  had  changed  more  himself ;  he  had 
lost  chastity  of  spirit  and  body,  he  was  bitterer,  older,  less 
tolerant,  more  restless;  but  he  could  trace  no  change  of 
feeling  towards  her,  there  were  only  the  pole  at  which  he 
once  thought  that  he  could  not  live  without  her  and  the 
pole  at  which  he  found  that  he  must.  Who  had  converted 
him? 

His  father,  of  course,  had  tried — tried  and  failed.  He 
had  come  to  see  that  now;  or,  to  be  accurate  (and  just) 
his  father  had  wanted  him  to  suspend  judgment  until  he 
knew  his  own  mind.  And  thereto  attached  a  great  respon- 
sibility, for,  if  the  marriage  had  taken  place  when  he  fell 
in  love  with  Idina,  he  would  never  have  wanted  to  be  out 
of  her  sight.  Sir  Aylmer  had  separated  them ;  on  Sir 
Aylmer's  shoulders  rested  the  nervous  and  physical  de- 
terioration, the  sudden  discovery  that  he  was  no  longer  in 
love  with  her — the  cogent  sense  that  he  must  escape  his 
obligation  by  some  means ;  it  was  his  father  who  had  driven 
him  to  the  point  where  he  now  stood.  .  .  . 

Now,  this  was  where  he  felt  so  amazingly  sane.  Another 
man  would  have  stamped  and  stormed,  shaken  his  fists  at 
Heaven — and  shewn  himself  very  foolish.  Before  con- 
demning his  father,  he  had  to  be  satisfied  first  that  his 
father  had  been  wrong  and  secondly — though  this  was  senti- 
mental— that  he  himself  would  not  have  made  the  same 
mistake — or  at  least  taken  the  same  course,  if  their  posi- 
tions had  been  reversed.  Well,  Sir  Aylmer  was  right  to 
this  extent :  he  saw  in  Idina  a  drag  and  an  intellectual 
spendthrift,  a  woman  who  would  never  rise  to  her  husband's 
social  and  economic  position,  let  alone  soaring  above  him 


412  MIDAS  AND  SON 

to  inspire  and  guide.  Idina  had  many  charming  quahties, 
but  no  one  would  waste  breath  in  defending  her  against 
that  charge.  And,  if  the  positions  were  reversed,  if  he 
were  moulding  the  destiny  of  his  own  sons — the  case  put 
so  often  since  his  father's  extraordinary  last  letter  of  ex- 
hortation (so  vague  in  its  direction!)  and  veiled  apology 
(so  lacking  in  definition!) 

His  reflections  were  interrupted  by  a  bell  ringing  some- 
where inside  the  house.  At  first  he  could  not  understand 
it;  no  bell  existed  above  basement  level ;  he  was  startled,  and 
none  the  less  so  for  his  late  afternoon  of  solitude.  As 
the  ringing  continued  he  recognised  the  mechanical  note  of 
a  telephone  bell ;  the  private  exchange  was  on  the  ground 
floor,  but  the  fine  was  connected  with  one  of  the  bedrooms. 
He  hurried  down,  with  just  enough  detachment  to  notice 
and  smile  at  the  compelling  hypnotism  which  a  telephone 
exerted  over  modern  civilisation;  ninety  to  one  it  was  a 
wrong  number,  and,  if  the  call  were  for  him,  he  did  not 
want  to  answer  it ;  indeed  he  had  not  thought  out  all  that 
was  involved  by  supplying  evidence  that  he  was  alive  at 
this  particular  moment.  This  required  thought  and  care. 
But  he  hurried  downstairs,  as  though  he  had  spent  hours 
trying  to  get  in  touch  with  someone  at  the  other  end  of  the 
world  on  business  of  vital  importance. 

"Is  that  Regent  484726  ?  Is  Sir  Deryk  Lancing  at  home  ? 
Sir  Deryk  Lancing." 

Deryk  smiled.  It  was  a  good  thing  that  Yolande's  voice 
was  so  distinctive.  He  tuned  his  own  to  a  throaty  tenor, 
resonant  with  subservience. 

"This  is  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Club,  madam.  I 
think  you  must  have  been  given  a  wrong  number." 

He  was  walking  upstairs,  when  the  bell  rang  again. 
Obviously  it  was  Yolande  once  more,  but  he  would  take  no 
further  risks.  It  was  a  nuisance — that  telephone;  it  had 
broken  the  thread  of  his  reflections,  and  they  were  no  ordi- 
nary reflections,  because — to  notice  the  first  and  most  ob- 
vious difference — he  was  sane,  and  other  people  were  al- 
ways a  little  prepossessed,  fantastic.    Now  he  must  abandon 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       413 

speculation  and  return  to  the  practical.  There  was  some- 
thing about  an  opportunity  thrown  away  (curious  how 
identity  of  place  produced  identity  of  thought;  he  always 
remembered  that  lost  opportunity  as  he  ducked  his  head 
and  stepped  out  on  the  flat  roof)  ;  it  was  like  the  thing  that 
Dante  found  painted  up  over  the  entrance  to  the  Inferno — 
"An  opportunity  awaits  you  here" ;  which,  by  the  way,  was 
not  what  Dante  found,  but  seemed  a  plausible  substitute. 
There  was  a  strange  critical  faculty  in  the  human  brain, 
which  seemed  the  first  to  doze  and  the  last  to  rouse ;  when 
you  were  asleep  your  imagination  rioted,  there  was  nothing 
to  keep  it  in  check,  you  delivered  speeches  of  surpassing 
eloquence  and  only  discovered  what  nonsense  you  were 
talking  when  you — and  the  critical  faculty — awoke.  Just 
before  you  returned  to  full  consciousness,  the  imaginative 
and  the  critical  played  side  by  side,  you  made  a  misquota- 
tion and  knew  it  to  be  a  misquotation,  even  though  it  were 
an  improvement  on  the  original ;  it  was  like  poor  Alice  re- 
citing, when  everything  would  go  wrong  and  she  knew  it 
was  wrong,  but  crocodiles  would  keep  pressing  forward 
when  she  wanted  to  talk  about  busy  bees.  Curious  brain 
Carroll  must  have  had.  .  .  . 

More  literary  small  change?  .  .  . 

It  came  to  this,  then ;  he  was  funking  it.  He  was  argu- 
ing and  thinking — pretending  that  some  value  attached  to 
his  fugitive  reflections — when  his  whole  mind  ought  to 
have  been  concentrated  on  that  opportunity.  He  was,  to  be 
quite  frank,  waiting  for  a  reprieve;  someone  would  tele- 
phone, another  search  party  would  come  and  beat  on  the 
door.  .  .  .  Good  God !  if  he  left  it  much  longer,  the  op- 
portunity would  be  gone;  his  housekeeper  would  be  ar- 
riving with  a  girls'  school  of  servants,  the  wonderful  soli- 
tude and  silence  would  be  ravished.  And,  to  be  accurate,  he 
was  not  funking  it ;  it  was  not  fair  to  say  that  he  was  funk- 
ing it ;  it  was  very  unkind ;  he  was  hesitating  between  rival 
methods,  that  was  all.  He  had  to  decide,  before  anything 
else,  when  the  tragedy  had  taken  place ;  he  could  not  leave 
nearly  three  hours  unexplained,  so  the  tragedy  had  better 


414  MIDAS  AND  SON 

be  timed  for  the  moment  when  Idina  and  the  Manistys  were 
out  of  earshot.  Unstrapping  his  wrist-watch  he  put  the 
hands  back  to  half-past  five — and  wondered  whether  any- 
thing would  remain  of  the  watch  when  he  had  done.  Then 
he  pulled  away  the  tarpaulin  a  second  time  and  dragged 
the  planks  aside.  .  .  . 

To  what  extent  would  his  subconscious  will  get  in  his 
way?  Older  than  the  oldest  man,  there  was  an  instinct  of 
self-preservation  which  refused  to  be  coerced;  if  you  were 
in  a  motor  smash  and  saw  the  other  car  in  time,  you  always 
ducked  your  head,  like  a  tortoise  getting  back  under  its 
shell,  and  put  your  arm  up  to  guard  your  eyes ;  a  woman 
always  tried  to  protect  her  bosom ;  it  was  the  untaught  les- 
son of  a  million  years.  (Curious  to  trace  the  forgotten 
origin  of  these  gestures !  Why,  when  people  were  amused, 
did  their  eyes  half  close,  their  cheeks  expand?  Of  course, 
Herbert  Spencer  used  to  say  that  people  frowned  when 
they  were  angry,  because  primitive  man,  scrapping  with  a 
neighbour  and  getting  hit  over  the  head,  had  to  twist  his 
brows  into  a  single  ridge  to  prevent  the  blood  running  into 
his  eyes.  A  bit  thin!)  Well,  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
fall  flat  backwards ;  as  you  began  to  lose  your  balance,  one 
foot  always  went  out  to  buttress  you  from  behind.  There 
was  a  fellow  at  his  tutor's  who  managed  it  and  would  fall 
down  again  and  again  without  hurting  himself ;  other  people 
could  not  even  when  they  tried  on  a  mattress.  So  with 
swimming.  There  was  a  fellow  in  one  of  Stevenson's 
books — "The  Ebb-Tide" — who  dived  into  the  lagoon  and 
swam  a  few  strokes  with  the  idea  of  stopping  suddenly  and 
sinking  like  a  stone.  He  tried,  but  it  was  no  good;  auto- 
matically the  arms  started  working  again,  he  had  to  go  on 
till  he  reached  the  shore.  And  next  day,  when  he  was  cov- 
ered by  Herrick's  rifle,  he  refused  to  put  up  his  hands  and 
begged  to  be  shot — begged :  but  he  could  not  stop  swim- 
ming. By  the  way,  it  was  Attwater  who  had  the  rifle,  of 
course;  Herrick  (or  Hay)  was  the  fellow  who  tried  to 
drown  himself.  A  thing  about  that  book  which  he  never 
understood  was  how  the   cockney  clerk  had  managed  to 


I 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       415 

keep  a  jar  of  vitriol  among  his  personal  effects  throughout 
a  steady  course  of  degradation  in  outlying  parts  of  the 
Pacific,  when  he  hadn't  a  thing  to  eat  and  was  starving  on 
the  beach  while  the  Captain  begged  stamps  from  the  Con- 
sulate. It  looked  very  much  like  a  slip  on  Stevenson's  part, 
comparable  with  that  other  curious  slip  in  "The  Master 
of  Ballantrae,"  where  one  of  the  brothers  at  the  end  of 
the  duel  plunged  his  rapier  up  to  the  hilt  in  ground  which 
you  had  just  been  told  was  frozen.  Stevenson  had  ad- 
mitted that  he  had  been  nodding  there.  .  .  . 

Deryk  spun  round  and  stamped  up  and  down  the  roof, 
cursing  in  language  which  he  had  never  used  since  he  was 
a  foul-mouthed  school-boy  of  fourteen.  He  was  funking, 
funking ! !  The  moment  he  tried  to  concentrate  his  mind 
on  action,  something  carried  him  away  to  futile  discussions 
of  books.  This  time He  looked  at  his  watch.  A  quar- 
ter to  six.     He  had  forgotten  what  the  time  was  before 

he  moved  the  hands ;  it  might  be  eight,  nine There  was 

no  sun  to  guide  him.  The  servants  would  be  coming  in  at 
any  moment.    This  time.  .  .  . 

The  fellow  across  the  road  was  starting  the  Marseillaise 
again — as  badly  as  ever.  In  a  way  this  was  rather  like 
Nana  dying  of  small-pox,  while  people  rushed  up  and  down 
the  streets  of  Paris,  shouting  "A  Berlin !" 

Literature  again! 

He  thrust  his  left  thumb  into  his  mouth  and  bit  in  speech- 
less rage  until  he  could  bear  the  pain  no  longer.  Then  he 
looked  at  the  result.    The  skin  was  still  unbroken. 

A  single  dry  sob  of  misery  shook  him. 

5 

It  was  only  a  question  how  much  noise  he  would 
make.  .  .  , 

He  stole  to  the  parapet  and  looked  down.  It  must  be 
getting  late,  because  the  soldiers  in  uniform  were  being 
outnumbered  by  men  in  evening  dress  on  their  way  out  to 
dinner.    There  had  been  no  second  search  party ;  the  others 


41 6  MIDAS  AND  SON 

must  have  gone  home.  He  wondered  when  they  would 
hear  about  it — and  how.  His  servants,  of  course,  would 
tell  the  police,  and  every  paper,  every  news-bill  would  be 
full  of  it.  How  would  they  take  it,  what  would  they  think 
had  really  happened?  What  was  the  impression  that  he 
had  left  on  their  minds  by  his  general  behaviour  that  af- 
ternoon? Everything  depended  on  that,  and  the  coming 
stratagem  that  was  forming  in  his  mind  was  so  much 
wasted  ingenuity  if  they  had  thought  him  abnormal.  It 
might  be  a  petty  thing,  people  who  had  not  been  in  the  same 
position  might  call  him  self-conscious  or  pernickety,  but, 
if  you  looked  at  it  reasonably,  if  words  had  any  meaning, 
why  should  a  man  be  called  insane  when  he  was  not  only 
positively  sane  but  relatively  far  more  sane  than  his  neigh- 
bours ? 

Hatherly  would  be  rather  broken  up,  but  he  would  be  the 
last  man  to  suspect. 

Raymond  would  not  hear  about  it  for  months — not  until 
the  war  was  over  and  he  was  released  from  his  fortress. 
Then  he  would  find  himself  in  unconditional  possession  of 
a  trifle  over  twenty  million  pounds  (and  be  damned  to 
him!  let  him  see  what  he  could  do  with  it!),  and  the  whole 
tragedy  would  be  so  long  past  by  them,  and  he  would  find 
no  one  with  whom  to  exchange  and  compare  suspicions ; 
otherwise  it  was  awkward,  because  old  Raymond  was  a 
shrewd  fellow.  But  the  money  would  keep  his  mind  occu- 
pied. .  .  . 

People  would  regard  it  as  a  tragedy — young,  rich,  popu- 
lar, good-looking,  on  the  eve  of  being  married ;  he  was  get- 
ting to  know  the  personal  touch  of  the  press,  he  could 
foretell  the  exact  form  of  the  obituary  notice,  and  in 
thirty-six  hours  the  little  cuttings  on  their  yellow  slips 
would  be  pouring  in  on  him  from  his  agency.  At  least,  not 
on  hhn;  they  would  come  addressed  to  him ;  it  was  rather 
curious  to  think  of  letters  coming  in  after  it  was  all  over, 
of  a  hundred  and  one  subsidiary  wheels  still  revolving 
when  the  piston  was  motionless  in  its  cylinder.  People 
would  finger  the  envelopes,  wondering  who  had  the  right 


A  QUESTION  OF  EXPEDIENCY       417 

to  open  them ;  and  in  the  end  Hatherly  would  have  to  dis- 
pose of  them.  Poor  old  Hats !  he  was  becoming  official 
undertaker  to  the  family,  and  he  was  so  touchingly  proud 
of  the  whole  creation — the  estate,  the  house,  the  title,  Sir 
Aylmer,  himself.  And  Hats  would  not  be  the  only  person 
to  miss  him.  .  .  . 

That  noise  question  had  to  be  decided.  It  had  no  bearing 
on  the  great  problem  of  accident  against  design ;  if  he 
brought  the  house  tumbling  about  his  ears,  that  was  still 
unaffected,  but  he  did  not  want  to  make  a  noise,  he  did  not 
like  the  idea  of  a  crowd  collecting  and  inquisitively  prying 
into  the  hall  while  a  solid  young  policeman  sucked  a  stump 
of  pencil  and  took  notes.  After  all,  it  was  his  body;  why 
the  Hell  should  these  damned  outsiders  be  allowed  to  come 
and  satisfy  their  morbid  curiosity  by  staring  at  him?  He 
must  not  make  a  noise,  not  enough  even  to  attract  the  solid 
young  policeman  who  was  even  then  cutting  short  his  con- 
versation with  one  of  the  Marlborough  House  sentinels. 
.  .  .  And,  when  he  started,  he  must  go  quickly;  there  was 
no  question  of  fear  yet,  but  he  would  indubitably  lose  his 
nerve  if  he  waited ;  it  was  like  hesitating  before  a  high 
dive.    God  1  it  was  remarkably  like  ! ! 

Deryk  kept  his  eyes  averted  from  the  opening  in  the 
roof  as  he  took  stock  of  his  position.  The  unfinished 
sketches  were  scattered  in  a  half  circle  of  crumpled  balls, 
his  coat  lay  where  he  had  thrown  it  across  the  frame  of  the 
new  skylight;  the  planks  were  neatly  piled,  the  tarpaulin 
was  beside  the  planks.  He  picked  up  the  coupling  rope 
and  caught  it  in  a  loose  knot  round  one  ankle — not  too 
tight  to  give  him  away,  not  loose  enough  to  slip  and  spoil 
his  effect.  As  he  drew  himself  upright,  the  whole  world 
seemed  to  be  standing  still ;  he  had  a  crazy  sense  that  noth- 
ing stood  between  him  and  the  gigantic,  unseen  God  in 
whom  he  had  been  taught  to  believe  as  a  boy;  London, 
never  before  silent  even  in  the  night,  was  silent  now  and 
airlessly  hot,  so  that  he  could  hardly  breathe. 

He  walked  quickly  to  the  round  opening  and  stood  poised 
at  the  edge  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  pulses  hammering 


41 8  MIDAS  AND  SON 

until  he  felt  that  something  must  burst.  The  eyes  had  to 
open,  to  see  that  the  rope  was  free.  Then,  closing  them 
again,  he  took  a  single  step  forward. 

A  stifled  cry  broke  from  his  lips  when  he  tried,  too  late, 
to  recover  his  balance. 

19  January,  1918. 


DATE  DUE 

■  ■     V 

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